


Love Means Nothing (in Tennis)

by fallovermelikestars



Category: Glee
Genre: Inspired by a Movie, Klaine Big Bang, M/M, Wimbledon Movie AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-30
Updated: 2013-10-30
Packaged: 2017-12-29 02:41:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 49,433
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/999891
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fallovermelikestars/pseuds/fallovermelikestars
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Wimbledon is arguably the most prestigious tennis tournament in the world and Blaine Anderson, once America’s darling, is now only here as the wildcard. Blaine has one goal - to play tennis and then, win or lose [and his money is on lose] to retire. He doesn’t bank on Kurt Hummel, young, handsome and with a backhand that would make even Djocovic weak at the knees. The rising star. As they battle against each other for that coveted trophy, Blaine finds himself wondering: is love actually more than a zero score?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This beast has been driving me crazy since I sat on Centre Court last June, watched Roger Federer play tennis and wondered what it would be like if it were Blaine. I’m not even kidding. It’s the longest thing I’ve written in *any* fandom, the idea has been played around with for the longest time, it’s had several stop-starts and a fairly major shift in plotline. It really has been a labour of love, even though I hated it some days and cameso close to just hitting the delete button. I’m glad I didn’t, this fic is my baby and I really hope that if you read it, you like it.
> 
> It’s no word of a lie to say I couldn’t have done it without [my incredible beta](http://gaytears.tumblr.com/); I swear I’d have given up and just cried if it weren’t for her hand-holding and encouragement. She’s put as much work into this as I have; it’s as much hers as it is mine. She is intrinsic to my writing process, even though she has a cold hard heart.
> 
> I also got incredibly lucky with my artist for this fic. Seriously, I am blown away. You should check out her art post[here](http://cs-kiddo.livejournal.com/4696.html). It's phenomenal.
> 
> If you see any resemblances to the film ‘Wimbledon’ starring Paul Bettany and Kirsten Dunst, well, you’re kind of supposed to, that’s kind of the point. Also, I am not a tennis expert. This is a love story not a sporting commentary, although I did try to Google and draw on the knowledge I’ve gleaned from watching the Grand Slams [because of the shorts] please don’t shoot me for any inaccuracies. And, I do not own anything. At all.

 

 

"I still can’t believe I let you talk me into this. I _specifically said_ I didn’t want to play Wimbledon this year," Blaine Anderson says, hand resting on the window frame as he looks out of his hotel window at the London skyline. The sky is gray and murky – it looks like rain, which is probably apt: Blaine always gets a weird satisfaction when the weather echoes his mood, and his mood right now is decidedly murky. Behind him, sitting in the overstuffed armchair that fills a corner of the overpriced hotel room, Blaine’s coach-come-manager Wes huffs out a laugh.

 "You _pay_ me to make these decisions, Blaine. Stop grumbling."

 "Yes, well. Maybe I should stop." Blaine turns, crosses his arms across his chest and fixes Wes with a glare. Wes, for his part, just rolls his eyes good-naturedly, as though Blaine’s displeasure is just a minor niggle he has to deal with. Blaine supposes it is. It’s not even that he’s that pissed off, really, more that he’s unsure; he’s never dealt well with with _unsure._

 "This is the opportunity of a lifetime, Blaine. The _wild card_. That means something."

 "Yeah," Blaine agrees, "It means I’m 32 years old, I’ve gone from being ranked 11th in the world to 119th and I’m past it. Everybody knows it apart from you. Wild card, Wes. It’s what they give the people who can’t get here on their own merit."

 "Ivanisevic went the whole way on the back of a wild card, Blaine. I’d ask you to remember that."

 Blaine sighs. This feels like Groundhog Day; same conversation, different location. Wes and him, they’ve been going back and forth about this for weeks and it’s all utterly pointless anyway no matter what he says, no matter his misgivings. He’s still _here,_ even though he can see the looks in their eyes, those of the "next generation” of sporting heroes, who bounce instead of walk, swinging their tennis rackets all bright-eyed and ready to take on the world, looking at him as though he came off the freaking _ark._ He wants to point to himself, to yell out, "I was where you are once, I was _good at this”_ but he doesn’t; he knows they’re judging him silently but hell, Blaine’s judging himself.

 He can’t help wondering whether it really is time to throw in the proverbial towel, to accept that maybe he's just too old to carry on; he is 32, after all, and the grass courts don't feel sacred like they used to, like they're calling him home and keeping him grounded. Somehow they feel more like a prison sentence, like an obligation, and Blaine hates to be obligated almost as much as he hates to be made a fool of.

 That's the other problem: the game that was once his savior now threatens to laugh in his face.

 "You’re _good,_ Blaine,” Wes tells him now, one leg crossed over the other and his fingers interlaced above his ankle. A small smile playing on the corners of his mouth as though he’s fighting to hold it in. "Let me remind you that for four years in a row you reached at _least_ the quarterfinals of every Grand Slam you competed in; you won the _US fucking Open, Blaine,_ and Olympic for mixed doubles. You’re good. You deserve to be here."

 "I _was_ good," Blaine corrects, and it’s true: once upon a time, he was. He’d heard the crowds at Wimbledon chant his name as he stepped onto Centre Court, the same court he'd watched every year on television for as long as he could remember. Fair enough, he never made it past the Wimbledon semi-final but he didn't care, he'd made it all the same. People knew his name, had it printed on goddamn _t-shirts_ – Blaine was someone and he was good and it was like giving his dad the finger: _you didn't buy me this ranking, I did it by myself, I'm here because of_ me. He'd made a career doing the one thing he loved more than anything, he lived and breathed tennis and had paid pretty damn well to do so, but the sporting world is cruel and these days Blaine's losing matches left right and center, has gone from front page headlines to tiny sports page columns about whether or not he's lost his touch. On the bad days he thinks that maybe he has. He hadn't even expected to _play_ at this year’s Wimbledon, though now it seems there's still some shine attached to the Blaine Anderson brand; he always was a crowd-pleaser with his boyish good looks and his eager-to-please persona, and by some fluke he's been offered a wild card.  

 The news, when it came, had been enough to have Wes dancing him around the bar where they’d been having a "business lunch," over the top exuberant until Blaine had bellowed “Wes!" at the top of his voice and brought him back down to earth with a thud. That in itself had been an experience because over the top displays of exultation? They are not Wes.

 Wes is calm and collected and ‘let’s take it all in our stride’ and ‘let’s make sure we have a master plan for all eventualities’ and ‘it’s not a sport, Blaine, it’s a science’ and ‘let’s draw diagrams of how your opponents might play;’ he’s full of facts and figures, always determined to make sure Blaine does everything properly. Sometimes Blaine wonders what it’d be like if someone gave Wes a gavel, can imagine him banging it heavily on the table and calling "order” to their meeting of two. He’s always gently shooting down Blaine’s more outrageous ideas with a soft smile and a "let’s do it this way."  

 Blaine would be lost without him.  

 The weird thing is that the tables seem to have turned and _Wes_ is now the one almost climbing the furniture while Blaine can't quite bring himself to _care_. He supposes it should be an honor, the wild card – Wes says it is – but it doesn't _feel_ like one to Blaine. What it feels like is official confirmation that he is done: even the committee knows he doesn't stand a chance, not really, and no matter what Ivanisevic had done, no matter what a fantastic opportunity Wes is trying to convince him it is, to Blaine it feels like charity. Blaine is an Anderson, and he can hear his father’s voice, stern, in the back of his mind... and _Andersons do not accept charity._

 He’d wanted to turn it down, to stop pretending and to just retire now, gracefully and quietly. To quit while he was ahead and maybe take a long holiday, spend some of his hard-earned cash and play tennis for pleasure at an exclusive country club. Wes, though, is having none of it and Wes makes the decisions, not only because Blaine pays him to (or because he's his best friend has Blaine’s trust), but because he's _Wes_ and it's just the way it's always been.

 So Blaine is the wild card and Wes is excited and Blaine has little choice but to suck it up and get through this one last tournament, for Wes. And then he’s going to get Wes drunk and tell him that he really is retiring, that Wes can't talk him out of it because Wimbledon, the most prestigious tennis club in the _world,_ wants him under their employ. He'd be a fool to turn them down, really, and that's that.

 Wes will hate it.

 Blaine will worry about that in three weeks, after the final – which he cannot wait to watch from the best seats on Centre Court with the debenture tickets his dad always somehow manages to secure, a gesture which Blaine always takes as his way of saying, "well done, son." Until then though he's here in London, England preparing to play at Wimbledon and no matter how disillusioned he feels, he can't deny that that gives him a certain thrill.

 

**: :**

 

"This is going to be our year, Kurt. I can just _feel_ it."

 Rachel Berry is nothing if not dramatic, and as she clutches her hands to her chest as she speaks with her eyes wide and sparkling, Kurt can’t help but laugh and wonder, quietly, whether she might be right. It’s certainly going to be Rachel’s year. Her tennis is in top form and she works harder than anybody Kurt ever met – she deserves to go all the way. He just really hopes he can go with her.

 "Well. We’ll soon find out, I guess." He drops down onto his mattress, kicking off his shoes and pulling his knees up to his chest, trying to play it cool, to not let Rachel’s excitement infect him because it would only be that bit further to fall. Kurt pats the space beside him, indicating that Rachel should join him. She does, without a moment’s hesitation, shuffling back against the headboard so her shoulder presses against Kurt’s.

 "We’re living the _dream,_ Kurt." And he laughs, gives in and lets the excitement take over just for a moment, because it’s so true. Everybody has a dream and Kurt Hummel is living his, living it to the point that some days he literally cannot stop himself from burying his face in a pillow, kicking his feet, and screaming because seriously, wow.  

 He's 24 years old and he's on his way to becoming a star. It's all totally unexpected – well, to Kurt at least; it seems everybody else always knew he could do it, or so they claim.

 Nobody who knew the younger Kurt would have pegged him as a future tennis player. Possibly an actor, or a Broadway superstar even, or maybe (if his eclectic sense of style when playing dress up in his mom’s clothes was anything to go by) a fashion designer, but anything at all remotely sporting? Nobody saw it coming.

 It goes to show, though, that people are more than what they appear on the surface. It had been just a few months after Kurt’s mom had passed away, and Burt had been wary of using all his babysitting credits too early, or of taking advantage of people's good nature, so he’d taken Kurt to work with him. In the back of his dad's garage one Saturday afternoon, Kurt had found his first tennis racket buried under a pile of junk waiting to go to the dump. He’d spent hours just hitting a dirty yellow ball against a wall, hours and hours and hours, the dull thud of the ball against the concrete wall something real and somehow reassuring in the way that nothing else really was just then. It was just a hobby, something the eight year old could focus on that wasn't how empty his house was without the sound of his mom's singing; that wasn't how different he was from the other boys; that wasn't the stark reality of his life.  

 It wasn’t long before his dad took to playing with him on the courts in the park on Sundays, surprised and a more than a little proud to discover that his kid was actually pretty _good._ Tennis had been Burt's dream too once upon a time, but he'd never given himself the chance, had figured pursuing a solid career was a better use of his time than playing sports. He had met and fallen in love with Kurt's mom before he got chance to regret his decision, but seeing Kurt so wrapped up in the game he'd once loved had awoken something in him: all of a sudden there was a way to connect with his boy, a lifeline that Burt had been waiting for since his wife's passing. Actually it had probably been before then – since the day three year old Kurt had solemnly told him all he wanted for his birthday was a pair of sensible heels and Burt had felt his chest constrict with panic. He loved Kurt, more than he knew how to articulate most days, but it scared him every single day that they’d never find a way to really _connect,_ that Burt would never be the parent Kurt so desperately needed.

 And then there was tennis.

 It was thanks to his dad's coaching that Kurt was spotted by his school's tennis coach at age 13. The stunningly pretty and more than a little bit crazy Holly Holliday had become his mentor and his harshest critic, convincing both father and son that Kurt was good enough to turn professional at the tender age of 16. It had been a no-brainer as far as Kurt was concerned: this was _tennis,_ he couldn't imagine doing anything else as long as he had his dad by his side, what other answer was there?

 In his first year Kurt climbed from 854th to 89th in the world. The tennis world sat up and took notice because this kid who had the porcelain pale face and the perfectly styled hair, who had a voice that didn't seem to have broken despite his 17 years, who looked like he'd _break_ if you pushed him too hard or cry if you raised your voice, was going places.

 They were right: now, having been a tennis professional for only eight years and at only 24 years old, Kurt Hummel is ranked ninth in the world and is the rising star, not only in the American tennis scene but that of the _world_. All eyes are on him, he's a household name. He's here in a rented London house with his best friend in the whole world by his side, and he’s about to play at Wimbledon. While he tries to ignore them, he can't escape the whispers (or in Rachel’s case, _screams_ ) that suggest that maybe this is in fact _his year_ and it gives him a thrill in the pit of his belly.

 

**: :**

 

So there you have it. Blaine Anderson, who made a career of being America’s darling, being given one last chance and Kurt Hummel, the boy with the pretty face and the quirky style, the boy that’s breaking the mold most tennis stars (most _sports_ stars even) seem so desperate to fit, ready to make his mark. The Wild card and the Golden Boy – public opinion is split as to which is which. Blaine holds the wild card title but Kurt has beaten down so many preconceived notions to even get here; Kurt’s photo is on the cover of Time but Blaine was on the cover of ESPN’s Body Issue first. Despite everything, there is a certain level of expectation that follows Blaine around to this day. The thing that binds them together, though they’ve never even spoken, is that they have a sort of inner strength. They will get to where they want to get by focusing on what makes them different, by ignoring the rest of the world, and by refusing to bow down.

 

**: :**

 

Blaine doesn't need to be on the courts today. In fact he's not supposed to be – he has a fairly strict training regimen which incorporates as much rest as it does practice because it wouldn't do for him to wear himself out before the tournament begins – but he's _bored_. There's only so many times a person can flick through the pay-per-view or read the same paperbacks, and he _really_ wishes he had an e-reader so that he could download whatever the hell he wanted without having to even get dressed. God, he does not want to go shopping.

He supposes he could stop moping, could pull on a baseball cap and head out to find a bookstore or maybe even do a spot of sightseeing, but he'll be spotted and sometimes he just hasn't got the energy to paint on a smile and sign autographs, promising fans all the while that he really isn't on his way out.  Sometimes Blaine just wants to be _Blaine_ and besides, sightseeing really is no fun alone. He's full of energy, bored to tears and feels like he's crawling out of his own _skin_ ; the only thing that makes sense when he feels like this is tennis, is the satisfying thud of the ball against the strings of his racket and against the grass. So here he is in shorts and an old Dalton university t-shirt, hair free from match day gel and game face nowhere in sight – he’s even unshaven. He’s wishing Wes would hurry the fuck up and come play when somebody jogs smack into his back, almost sending him stumbling forward.

 “Shit, fuck. I am _so_ sorry!"

Blaine had been about to turn around and apologize (even if whoever it is had banged into _him_ , still he's an amenable kind of guy and it's instinct), but he freezes a little at the sound of the voice behind him. It's the most beautiful voice Blaine has ever heard, breathy and almost musical in its lilt, and he has to swallow hard, telling himself to get a grip because maybe he hasn't gotten laid in a while but it was _six words_ and nobody gets worked up over six words, and people never fit their voices anyway.

Except this guy does.

He's beautiful, and maybe that's unimaginative but Blaine can't think of another adjective that does him justice. He's a little taller than Blaine with flawless pale skin that Blaine's fingers itch to reach out and touch; he curls them into his palm to stop them from moving of their own accord. Hair the color of chestnuts is swept away from his face and his eyes bore into Blaine's in concern as he presses a tooth into his plump, red, _perfect_ bottom lip.

“I haven't hurt you, have I?" Then a slow look of realization crosses his face and he brings a hand up to cover his mouth, eyes widening in horror. He mumbles something through his fingers and Blaine raises his eyebrows questioningly.

“Sorry?"

The boy moves his hand away from his face then, his smile oddly familiar.

“I said, you're Blaine Anderson."

And it's always kind of satisfying when somebody recognizes him whether he's in the mood to be recognized or not, especially when it's somebody who looks like this. Blaine grins and holds out a hand.

“That I am, and no need to look so horrified; I promise you didn't hurt me."

The boys takes his hand gingerly, as though expecting it to develop a mind of its own and crush his fingers, and shakes his head slowly from side to side, pale face now flushed tomato red.

“And you are?" Blaine asks gently, because they seem to be in some weird hand-holding limbo and as nice as it is, it's also slightly awkward.  

 

**: :**

 

Of all the people in all the world that Kurt could choose to bump into, he has to choose _Blaine Anderson_. Blaine Anderson who to top it all off is about seven billion times better looking in the flesh than he ever was on the posters that Kurt had kept on his bedroom walls until he'd decided on his nineteenth birthday that he was too old for posters. Too old for posters but not too old for crushes, clearly, or for following the object of said crush on Twitter, or for recording every match and interview, for buying every magazine his name is mentioned in.  

He’s not too old for daydreaming either, apparently. Such is life. And now he's standing here, at _Wimbledon_ , with _Blaine_ _Anderson's_ (tanned, perfect) hand in his and _he's not speaking._

If this were a romantic comedy, Kurt thinks, there would be music playing as he and Blaine stared into each others’ eyes, there’d be a pause, a dramatic build-up, and then they’d kiss and it would be incredible and some boy band would sing a love song in the background. Except this is just Kurt’s _life_ and what there is is an awkward silence and tennis star Blaine Anderson’s hand in his own increasingly clammy one.

"Kurt," he says finally, "Kurt Hummel."

Realization dawns on Blaine’s face. "Of _course_ you are. I knew you were familiar; I didn’t recognize you without the full attire." He drops Kurt's hand to gesture at his outfit: black skinny jeans, white boots that come to his mid-calf, and a cobalt shirt accessorized with a gorgeous brooch in the shape of a tennis ball that he’d had specially commissioned – it’s such a _thrill_ being able to afford fashion. Blaine’s smile is bright and his eyes twinkle as he stands in his own shorts and t-shirt getup.

It makes sense, because of course Blaine only knows him as the tennis player; Kurt is flattered actually that he even knows him as that, as being ranked _ninth_ in the world kind of goes out the window when you’re faced with the idol of your teenage years. Of course he’s not going to recognize Kurt otherwise, when he's not in action on court: Blaine isn’t some kind of creepy stalker fan, which is exactly what Kurt feels like _he_ is right now.

"Sorry,” Kurt says weakly. "Sorry, it’s just. God. I’m a really big fan of your…everything, of your....you. And I’m making an idiot of myself, I need to stop talking. Oh my God, why am I still talking?"

"Kurt." Blaine grabs his hand again, squeezing his fingers gently this time, "Kurt, it’s ok. Honestly. Relax. I’m a fan of yours too, truth be told. Your backhand is beautiful."

And fuck him sideways if _Blaine_ _Anderson_ hasn’t just complimented his _backhand._

"Thanks?" He says, a small smile playing around the corners of his mouth as his heart thunders wildly in his chest. "I. I. You. Your everything is beautiful. Oh _fuck."_

He smacks himself on the forehead with the heel of his hand. What is he even doing right now? One thing Kurt has always been is eloquent, he uses words like weapons (you kind of have to when you’re the only out gay kid in a Ohio school of neanderthals) – so why is he falling to pieces right now? He’s met bigger stars than Blaine before. He had a lunch-slash-interview with Boris freaking _Becker_ just last week and he’d been fine, done perfectly even, so why is he turning into an utter mess right now? This is beyond mortifying; Kurt wishes fervently that he was a superhero, could disappear at will whenever he wanted, rather than just a tennis player. Blaine’s laughing, he realizes suddenly, his cheeks slightly flushed, or is that just Kurt’s wishful thinking? Perhaps he’s just projecting.

“Thanks?" Blaine says, a little unsure and a lot teasing.

Kurt huffs out a laugh – he can't wait to tell Rachel about this later, knows she’ll flush red with secondhand embarrassment and share a conciliatory slice of cheesecake with a pinkie promise to not tell anyone they’re eating junk food so close to a big tournament. That’s one of the best things, Kurt thinks, about having a best friend in the same game as you: Rachel Berry might be a total diva (he knows without a doubt that not only is she the biggest diva on the professional tennis circuit, but that she’d also put the most demanding of movie stars to shame) but she also _gets_ Kurt like not many people do. She understands that while sometimes he really wants to eat a whole cheesecake with extra cream, it’s the week before Wimbledon and he can’t.

That’s later, though, and while he knows that he’ll look back on this moment and laugh, right now he’s just about dying.  He rolls his eyes self-deprecatingly.

"It’s a compliment, I promise. I’m usually quite the wordsmith, you’ll have to forgive me. I’ll plead sun exposure; I should have worn a hat." He looks up at the gray London sky that’s been threatening rain all day with a wry grin. Blaine laughs again, and this time Kurt’s sure it’s with him and not at him.

 

**: :**

 

It’s the day before the start of the tournament and Kurt Hummel stands alone outside the changing rooms in jeans so tight they should be illegal, looking a mixture of mortified, nervous, and amused. Blaine thinks Kurt is adorable. Adorable and _hot_. He has this overwhelming urge to grab him by that perfect face and just kiss him, which absolutely would not be anywhere close to the realms of "cool” nor would it be at all professional; Wes would kill him, dead, so as tempting as it is, he doesn’t. He just laughs, because as well as adorable and hot, Kurt is also funny despite his stumbling bashful awkwardness. Honestly, Kurt Hummel is fast approaching the top of his game and Blaine is a washed-up has-been; if either of them should be starstruck right now, Blaine’s pretty sure it’s not Kurt.

"So what are you up to, Kurt?"

Maybe Blaine is starstruck too because what kind of dick question is that? He’s Kurt Hummel and he’s at the Wimbledon training ground, what does Blaine _think_ he’s here to do, bake a pie? Kurt doesn’t seem to think there’s anything unusual in the question though as he shrugs his shoulders and toes at the ground with the tip of his sneaker.

"I’m supposed to be meeting my brother here for practice, but in true Finn style he’s late."

Blaine’s eyes widen, because this is brand new information: "Your brother plays too? What are you guys, the new Venus and Serena?"

Kurt laughs at that, and it’s such a pure musical sound that Blaine wants to punch the air in delight just for being the one to cause it.

"Hardly. Finn’s not that into tennis. He’s just here for the sightseeing and he never says no to a free trip. He’s handy enough with a racket to keep my muscles loose, though, so I told him he could earn his trip. Clearly he’s had a better offer." Kurt leans forward conspiratorially, as though preparing to share a great secret and Blaine, intrigued, leans in to meet him, forcing himself to ignore the way he’s sure the air _crackles_ between them, the way Kurt’s eyes are an even more gorgeous color up close.

"Finn’s dating Rachel Berry,” Kurt whispers, "who also happens to be my best friend. It’s all very incestuous and I try to keep well out of it."

"Your brother is dating Rachel Berry? Your best friend is Rachel _Berry?"_

Blaine stops himself from repeating the rumors he’s heard about the current female number 3, which are that she is phenomenal at tennis but a total nightmare and absolutely not the type of person he would imagine Kurt befriending, based on their entire five minutes of acquaintance. He’s heard plenty about her, of course he has. Rachel Berry is _in_ famous and he’s often wondered whether the stories he’s heard – that’s she’s been playing tennis competitively since she was a year old (and surely she’s been misquoted because how is that even possible); that she believes herself to be the greatest tennis player America (and indeed the world) has ever seen; that she plays for a minimum of five hours every single day; that in interviews she repeatedly proclaims herself to not only be the greatest tennis player but the greatest _sportsperson_ (is it even possible to be that arrogant?); that she negotiated deal with Adidas that was about her and her only because there was no other brand on the tennis scene she thought worthy of having their name advertised alongside hers (and how does that make Kurt feel, Blaine wonders, as her best friend?). He remembers a quote from a magazine article: “ _You may laugh because every time I sign my name I put a little trophy after it, but it's a metaphor, and metaphors matter. My trophies are a metaphor for me; one day I’ll win them all. I’ll be the female number one, just wait."_ He’s heard tell she claimed that the world not knowing her name would be worse than being homeless. Blaine’s kind, he likes to see the best in people and would like to say Berry just has a healthy dose of ambition but the truth is he thinks she sounds _awful._ Yet she’s Kurt’s best friend, she’s dating Kurt’s brother and Kurt, Kurt is absolutely not awful. 

At all. 

Kurt nods sagely. "Yes and yes. And... everything you’ve heard about her is probably true," he carries on, as though he’s reading Blaine’s mind – it’s _weird_ and also somehow appealing. "She’s a phenomenal talent and a total nightmare. But somehow utterly lovable; don’t ask me about that, I’m still figuring it out."

It’s relaxed him at least, Blaine thinks, talking about his brother and his best friend. For a second Blaine wonders what that must be like: to be where Kurt is, to have a best friend who has chosen the same career path as him and is equally as successful, to have a brother that wants to be part of your life instead of one that tries to outshine you at every turn.

"I’m sure she’s not half as bad as the papers say," he says kindly. "After all, you don’t strike me as the type to suffer fools gladly." 

Kurt looks pleased at that assessment, inclines his head a little.

"Rachel’s secure in her own talents is all. There are worse things."

Blaine can get on board with that sentiment, remembers a time when he was secure in _his_ talent although he was always the media darling, all good manners and charm rather than vanity and hissy fits. It’s all about perception and it makes Blaine wonder how much Rachel’s faults are exaggerated. He tries, too, to remember what he’s read about Kurt's own off-court antics but nothing comes to mind, and he wonders if heading back to his room now to Google him would be weird. Probably. Maybe there’s a less internet-stalker kind of way to get to know him.

He grins, feels it widening as Kurt smiles back. "Seeing as your brother isn’t actually here, and it doesn’t sound like he’s that into playing anyway, would it be wrong to assume he wouldn’t mind if you had someone else to play with now?"

"No?" Kurt looks like he’s trying to follow Blaine’s train of thought, and failing. "I guess not?"

"Then shall we?" Blaine gestures towards the changing rooms and the courts behind them, and Kurt’s eyebrows raise so high it’s almost comical.

"Me? And you? Play tennis? Together?" Kurt’s speaking in staccato sentences, each one raised at the end questioningly, and looking at Blaine as though he just suggested they drill for oil right here in the tarmac. It throws Blaine off a bit because it doesn’t seem like that outlandish an idea to him. He plows on regardless, quirking his mouth in a teasing smile.

"Well, yes. That’s what we _do,_ isn’t it; the whole reason we’re here?"

"I suppose so." Kurt’s a little wary at first and then he shakes his head a little, taking a deep breath and visibly relaxing, looking down at the ground and back up at Blaine. He wears a small smile on his face as though he can’t quite believe this is happening. "Yeah, yeah, okay then. Let’s.”

 

**: :**

 

Kurt has never gotten ready for a practice session as fast in his life, ever. He’s Kurt Hummel and every opportunity – even just a quick game of tennis – is an opportunity for fashion, but today he can’t change out of his jeans fast enough. Even so, Blaine is already waiting for Kurt on the edge of the court once he’s changed, having chosen red shorts and a perfectly pressed white t-shirt. The red in his Nike shoes matches his shorts perfectly, and his wristbands that rest tomato red against his pale wrists, the white "swoosh” only visible if you really look.

Kurt hadn’t been concerned about a merchandising deal initially, he never wanted to be mainstream, but he has to admit it makes sense to be matched with a brand with the power that Nike has. The exposure can only be a good thing and they seem willing to work with him – he’s still managing to keep hold of his individuality, no mean feat in a world where all there is is white as far as the eye can see. He doesn’t bother with his trademark headband; it’s just practice and he doesn’t want to look like he’s trying too hard though he obviously is. Leaving off the headband is Kurt’s own version of the carefully styled "just-rolled-out-of-bed" look and he plans to rock it.

Blaine’s bouncing a ball in the center of his racket like Kurt _never_ does in case he damages his strings and bobbing his head in time with the soft ping noise of the ball hitting the lattice. Kurt has to stop for a second, take a deep breath and center himself. How had he not noticed before how short Blaine's shorts are? Although what had he expected, really. The ridiculously short ones that show off more tanned toned thigh than is perhaps decent are, have always been, Blaine’s own version of Kurt’s headband. He's also wearing a t-shirt so faded it’s practically see-through, and it clings to Blaine’s chest and shoulders and back so well it should be a _crime_. He’s stunning. Kurt doesn’t _want_ to be ogling him, doesn’t want to come across as just some kid with a crush but he can’t help it: he’s a healthy 24 year old gay man and Blaine is well, _Blaine_ _._ He shakes his head, swallowing hard and hitching his bag a little higher on his shoulder as he crosses the grass.

 

**: :**

 

Blaine Anderson is fun. Kurt can’t think of another way to sum him up.

Actually Kurt is a big fat liar because hot, sexy, gorgeous, adorable, talented, friendly, and charming, they all fit the bill. But on top of that, Blaine is also _fun_. Kurt can’t remember the last time he had so much fun playing tennis, which is insane because he loves playing tennis. Playing tennis is his life, but it’s never like this; it’s always enjoyable and satisfying and familiar but it never makes him laugh like this.

Blaine bounces like he has springs in the soles of his sneakers, jumping from one spot to another, whooping and yelling and over-exaggerating almost every shot. He keeps a volley going for a good five minutes and then just moments later serves an ace that spins past Kurt’s shoulder so fast he can barely even register it – Blaine drops his racket and dances around his half of the court in some kind of weird victory dance reminiscent of "Walk Like an Egyptian" 'til Kurt is doubled over and holding his stomach, gasping for breath with a stitch in his side that has nothing at all to do with the exertion of the game itself.

"I honestly have no clue how you ever win _anything_ if this is how you play when the cameras aren’t on," he says, laughing as Blaine bounds over to him. He accepts a bottle of water from his hands and takes a mouthful. "You’re insane."

When Kurt hands the bottle back Blaine gives a one-shouldered shrug, then he drops down to the grass and lies back, patting the space next to him.

"Everybody takes everything too seriously," Blaine says lightly. "It should be fun or else what’s the point? We’re going to be scrutinized next week; as long as we’re fit enough and we can focus ourselves then, when it matters, we might as well let off some steam now."

He pats the ground again a little more insistently this time and Kurt hesitates for a moment. It feels odd to just lie down there in the middle of the court; maybe it’s due to years of Coach Holliday’s relentless training, but he can’t help feel like he’s just wasting time, like if he’s going to be here then he should be working and not just lazing around. Blaine has his eyes closed, knees bent. It feels odder to stand around looking down at him. He takes a breath, hopes the grass is dry enough to not stain his clothes, and lowers himself gracefully down.

They lie in silence for a few moments. Kurt can hear Blaine’s breathing even out after the mad rush of what he is reluctant to call a practice though he certainly worked up a sweat, he hears the soft thud of balls and calls of "out" and "fault" and the occasional "oh shit" from the neighboring courts. It feels surprisingly nice and more than that, _comfortable_ to be still like this, and it catches him somewhat off guard. He’s not used to comfortable silences; to not feeling pressured to perform; to not always have to consider what everyone else is thinking.  Even with his dad, Kurt is always so desperate to reassure: _yes I’m happy, no I’m not training too hard, yes I’m ready for the match, no my ankle isn’t bothering me, yes I’m sure, no I don’t care what the damn tabloids say (it’s not like I can hide my sexuality anyway)._ He can’t afford for his dad to worry, not after the health scares they’ve been through. It’s kind of liberating now to just lie here in the London breeze and just do and say and be absolutely nothing. He wonders if it should be odd that he feels like this around Blaine, whom he’s known five minutes in the scheme of things, and not around Rachel or Finn or his childhood friend Mercedes. It doesn’t. It feels wonderful and Kurt doesn’t ever want to move.

"My ass is numb." Blaine clearly doesn’t feel the same way. Kurt opens an eye to watch as the man pushes himself into a sitting position and rolls his neck, turning a little to look down at Kurt and smiling.

"What are you doing tonight?"

"I’m supposed to be having dinner with my dad," Kurt says, raising one leg off the ground and stretching out his muscles.

Blaine seems to hesitate a little before speaking, taking a breath then letting it out slowly. He looks away from Kurt for a second to pluck at a loose thread on his t-shirt. "Would it be awfully rude of me to suggest you blow him off?"

Kurt’s stomach does a gold medal-worthy somersault. Is Blaine asking him to do something, something that isn’t tennis, tonight _,_ a _Friday night_? He’s Kurt Hummel; he can do cool. He quirks an eyebrow.

"I don’t know, Blaine. That would be two members of my family you’ve asked me to ditch in one day. Do you think that’s rude?"

"Technically your brother was a no-show," Blaine points out, "so that was more me being a good fellow sportsman and making sure you got your practice in. It’s only one person I’m asking you to ditch."

"And the aforementioned sportsmanship makes up for that, am I right?"

Blaine nods vigorously. "Right. So is that a yes? Only there’s this cute little tapas place round the corner from my hotel that I’ve been dying to try and _nobody_ eats tapas alone."

 

**: :**

 

Blaine thinks he might be a little bewitched by Kurt. Which, granted, sounds more than a little bit melodramatic, but still he thinks it holds some truth. He hasn’t been able to take his eyes off the way Kurt moves, gracefully and more like dancer than a sportsman; off the way his shirt rides up as he stretches to serve, showing just a flash of pale flat stomach; or off the way his eyes seem to change color when he laughs. Blaine has been making him laugh as much as possible because when he does his nose screws up – Blaine thinks that might just be the most adorable thing he’s ever seen. Kurt’s voice is like music, higher than you might expect from a man but not feminine, sort of lilting, occasionally a little breathy and often wryly amused, as though the world is one big joke that only Kurt is in on. God, Blaine wants to be in on it too.

He half thought Kurt might say no when he asked him to dinner – his heart had been thundering in his chest, his mouth dry thanks to nerves, which was all ridiculous because it was only tapas. It’s not as though it's a _date_ , except he knows it kind of is; maybe nobody does eat tapas alone but Blaine also knows that Wes would have joined him for dinner in a heartbeat had Blaine asked. He knows this because Wes is looking at him now over the rim of his glasses and Blaine _knows_ that look. Blaine secretly thinks Wes has 20/20 vision and just wears the glasses so that he can look at Blaine like this.

"What?"

It makes Blaine feel like a schoolboy hauled in front of his teacher every time, which is madness because Wes is like two years older than him, tops, but there it is: that note of defensiveness has crept into his tone, his chin jutting just a little of its own accord.

"You’re going out for dinner," Wes states dryly. "With Kurt Hummel."

"Yes. Yes, I am." Blaine nods, leaving no room for argument. Wes is the worst person in the world to try and argue with (he is always so annoyingly reasonable and so annoyingly right) and Blaine is determined not to be budged on this.

"You are aware that it’s your qualifier tomorrow."

Blaine resists the urge to roll his eyes, because really? "Yes. I’m aware, Wesley. And I’ll be a good boy and I won’t drink and I won’t stay out past my bedtime. Scout's honor."

He holds up three fingers in salute and Wes frowns.

"You were never a scout."

"No," Blaine agrees, pulling his iPhone out of the pocket of his jeans and typing out a message to Kurt. Giving Wes a wink, "I wasn’t, was I?"

 

**: :**

 

"Dad." Kurt rolls his eyes and shrugs into his best gray jacket, "it’s just dinner."

Burt Hummel sighs heavily, running a hand across his thinning hair and down his face. " _We_ were supposed to have dinner," he points out.

Kurt laughs. "And don’t you pretend like you’re upset that we’re not, 'cause I know you’re dying to go to that burger place with Finn."

Touché. Kurt knows he’s right. To his credit, Burt doesn’t try to argue.

"I’m just not convinced a date tonight is the best idea is all, and who is this Blaine kid anyway?"

"Don’t give me that." Kurt rolls his eyes again and hopes his dad stops being ridiculous quick; his eyes are doing so much work that it’s giving him a headache. " _Who is this Blaine kid_. Like you don’t know, like you haven’t watched me follow his career, like it’s not your _job_ to know."

"Well," Burt says stubbornly, "it’s different when he’s some guy wanting to date my kid. And I always thought he seemed too nice..."

"I’ve heard it all now." Kurt throws his hands into the air in frustration. "He’s too _nice_ for me? That makes no sense and you know it. I’ll go and pick a complete jerk that’s going to screw me over and break my heart then, is that what you want? Besides which, as I keep on saying, _it’s. just. dinner."_

"It’s a bad idea." Burt is determined but Kurt can’t quite put his finger on why. Is it Burt Hummel, manager trying to make good decisions for his charge just days before the tournament of his career, or is it Burt Hummel, father trying to protect his kid? Either way it’s annoying. "You’re you, he’s him; you’re going to get hassle."

Kurt’s cell beeps in his pocket and he tugs it free impatiently. It’s a text from Blaine – his pulse quickens.

_Hey. So I’m just about to leave, I’ll probably get there a little before you. The owner was so sweet when I called in earlier, she booked us a little table in the corner so we won’t be bothered – so don’t worry about that :) if you were that is. I’m starving, I can’t wait. See you soon, B x_

He smiles, taps out a quick, " _Great, see you soon,"_ and wills his pulse to slow. If he's reacting like this to just a text then there’s a very good chance he’ll keel over at dinner, thus ruining any chance of his becoming Wimbledon Champion, at least this year.

"Blaine’s got it handled. We’re arriving separately and he’s already booked a secluded table. It’s fine, Dad. I’m allowed to go to dinner and I’m allowed to be friends with other tennis players. I go eat dinner with Rachel all the time." Burt opens his mouth to protest and he holds up his hand, stopping his dad before he has chance to speak. "Don’t say it. It’s _not_ different. It really is just dinner, Dad, and I won’t be out late and I won’t drink. I know it’s my qualifying match tomorrow, I think it’s his too. We’re all on the same page here."

"Except we’re on your team and he’s on his," Burt mutters and Kurt sighs.

"Please don’t ruin this for me, Dad. Please?"

 

**: :**

 

Blaine is already seated at their little booth in the back corner of the restaurant when Kurt arrives, but he stands as he sees Kurt approach, his face breaking into an easy smile that Kurt can’t help but return. He seems ridiculously pleased to see Kurt, pulling him into a quick bone-crushing hug before letting him go, allowing his eyes to roam from head to toe.

"You look great." He says and Kurt smiles, accepts the compliment with a slight incline of his head as he slides into the booth opposite Blaine, wondering if it would be uninspired to fire the sentence back to him. Uninspired and an understatement – Blaine looks gorgeous. His dark hair is gelled to his head, the way it is when he plays tennis, the way Kurt is used to seeing it. The slightly unruly curls of the afternoon are gone, as are the shorts and faded t-shirt, replaced by pale gray chinos and a green plaid shirt. He’s wearing a matching green bowtie (Kurt thinks it might be the most endearing thing he’s ever seen), hanging suspenders, and navy Top-Siders. _Top-Siders_ , yet somehow, and Kurt doesn’t think he’ll ever understand this, they look good.

“I’m so sorry I’m late."

 

**: :**

 

Kurt’s apologizing for being late but Blaine is so distracted that he’s totally forgotten he was waiting, and it was only ten minutes anyway.

"Don’t worry about it. You look great." And fuck’s sake, he _just_ said that. Kurt’s smiling, though, and blushing a little so maybe it’s ok. Besides, seeing Kurt in tight black jeans and a fitted black v-neck top under a grey jacket with the most _incredible_ print Blaine has ever seen, it’s not like it’s not true. Doubly true.

"Yes." Kurt raises an eyebrow in amusement, a hint of red still high on his cheeks. “ou said. And if you’re repeating yourself so I’ll return the compliment you ought to remember that it’s impolite to fish, Blaine."

Blaine snorts with laughter – Kurt’s so calm and cool and collected, so _funny_ in an almost dry way, more self-assured than Blaine thinks he ever was at 24. Still, there seems to be a certain vulnerability behind his eyes that Blaine catches a flash of every now and then, and it just makes him want to know more.

"That said," – and he’s still talking, Blaine really needs to concentrate more – "I think it’s safe to say green is your color."

Dinner is lovely. The food is great, and Kurt throws himself in completely, ordering dishes Blaine has never even heard of and simply shrugging his shoulders when asked. "You have to try everything once, right?" he says, holding forkfuls of food for Blaine to taste. Blaine can’t help wondering if Kurt is as struck by the intimacy of that gesture as he is. Kurt laughs when Blaine teases him for ordering sparkling water.

“What’s wrong with good old tap, Kurt?”

"It has no _fizz_ , Blaine."

Somehow it feels less like they met purely by accident just hours ago and more like they’ve been here, sharing tapas and poking idle fun at one another, forever. Blaine knows it’s crazy (and he’s not even drinking, so he can’t even blame the alcohol) but something is telling him that this, Kurt, is something special, something rare and precious that he should hold onto. Suddenly he is struck with panic, because what if Kurt isn’t interested, what if Blaine fucks it up, how can he go back now to how his life was this morning? It’s not that he believes in love at first sight – he’s 32 years old and outgrew those kinds of romantic fantasies around age 10 – but he does believe in a sort of fate and he does believe in his own feelings, and he knows as surely as he knows his own name that if he doesn’t get to know this enchanting man better then he’ll regret it for the rest of his life.

"My dad didn’t want me to come tonight," Kurt says conversationally, spearing a king prawn with his fork and sweeping it through the sauce. "He thinks you’re the competition. He’s probably coming up with some elaborate conspiracy as to how you’ve only invited me here to try and sabotage my chances."

"Oh!" That surprises Blaine a little because, well, he’s not really thought about it like that, about the fact that starting tomorrow Kurt and he will be competing for the same title. Not that it’s any kind of a competition though, really. "It’s not true, though, is it?"

"That you’re planning to sabotage me? I hope not." Kurt side-eyes Blaine warily. "Have you slipped something in my drink? Should I be worried?"

"No! No, I mean, about me being the competition. I’m not, am I?"

Kurt raises his eyebrows questioningly.

"I mean that we’re even here having this conversation is verging on seedy old man territory, and the fact you’re _half my age_ aside" – Blaine points at Kurt with his fork – "9th" – and then at himself – "119th. Wildcard. Everyone knows I’m on the way out, in all honesty I probably should have retired last year. I’m not even expecting to make it to the quarters; I’m hardly competition."

"Oh, I don’t know." Kurt leans back in his chair, and regards Blaine thoughtfully. "I haven’t played a Grand Slam this year – stupid ankle – and you’re still _good_ ; I don’t think anybody should be writing you off just yet. You were a little off your game at the French but not because you can’t play, it seemed like you’d almost given up. You just need to refocus is all."

He’s right and Blaine’s surprised. He _had_ been off his game at the French Open, and he had all but given up, decided his time was over and he should just fade away slowly, letting the new wave of players fill his shoes. He’d intended it to be his last competition. It surprises him that Kurt, who didn’t know him then and could only have been watching him play from the sidelines, if not on his television at home, had picked up on it. Nobody else has said a thing, everything he’s heard and read blaming old age (and God, he’s _32_ ) for the decline in his game rather than Blaine’s own dying enthusiasm.

"It sounds like you _want_ us to be competitors,” he teases. Kurt shrugs one shoulder, folding his napkin and placing it gently by his plate.

"We’re going to be that whether or not," he points out, "and there’s no getting around it. What I _want_ is for you to be the best you can possibly be, and well, if this really is going to be your last competition, you know what they say."

Blaine is touched. Tennis is a competitive sport – it’s hard to have friends in this field because everybody is always shooting for the same goals, wanting the same things, and they will move heaven and earth to get to them no matter who stands in their way. Friendship is left in the changing room, if that and no matter the handshakes and hugs or how genuine you might be in defeat, until you _are_ defeated it’s every man for himself and oftentimes the court can feel like a war zone. Kurt’s words, _what I want is for you to be the best you can be_ , make Blaine feel warm to the tips of his toes. He wants to wrap them around himself like a security blanket, a reminder that someone out there still thinks he can succeed.

"What do they say?"

"It’s better to burn out than fade away."

 

**: :**

 

It’s a little cool out when they step out of the restaurant and Kurt tugs his jacket round himself, glancing at Blaine out of the corner of his eye; he must be freezing and possibly a little crazy: this is England and it’s nighttime, who wears shirts with no sleeves, even in the summer? Blaine doesn’t seem cold though, shoves his hands deep into his pants’ pockets and offers Kurt another of those easy smiles as they fall into step. Kurt has never known anybody to smile as freely as Blaine does.

It’s getting late now, pushing 10 o’clock, and the little side street that houses the restaurant is quiet – people having headed into the city already in search of bars and clubs. Kurt’s grateful for the lower chance of getting spotted because he might have told his dad he didn’t care, but it was all bravado; in reality he really doesn’t think he has the energy to deal with a front page scandal in the morning papers. It doesn’t matter that the scandal is nonexistent right now, all it takes is one photograph and it could all blow up in his face. In both of their faces.

"Where are you staying?" Blaine asks suddenly, as though just noticing that they’re walking aimlessly, neither one having any idea of the other’s destination. "I’ll walk you back."

"We’ve got a place," Kurt says, "through Tennis London. If you’re staying near here it’ll be miles out of your way; I can just grab a cab."

It’s one of the things Burt always insists on, that they rent a house for the duration of the tournament rather than get a hotel. You can never relax properly in a hotel, he says, and Kurt’s always been grateful for the fact he can kick back and just _be_ after a hard day on the grass, that the only people he needs to speak to are his team and his family, that there’s no staff or other guests or goddamn photographers hanging around in the lobby. Now though, he finds himself wishing that just this once they had a hotel, that they were more central, that Blaine could, in fact, walk him back. He doesn’t want the night to be over.

"That sounds nice," Blaine says softly, "much more homely than a hotel.” Kurt nods in agreement. They seem to have drawn to a standstill. Blaine’s body is angled a little bit towards Kurt and he looks from Kurt’s feet down to the pavement and back up to his face again. "I’d ask you to come back for a drink, but it’s a fairly busy bar."

"And we both have matches tomorrow anyway," Kurt finishes.

"That we do." A pause. "What are you doing afterwards? We could get lunch."

Kurt pauses. He usually has lunch with his dad and Holly after matches to break things down and strategize, so even though no plan has been discussed for tomorrow he knows it’s what they’ll be expecting. Except it’s not what Kurt wants anymore . They have the rest of the day to talk work. Surely he deserves a bit of a break?

"If you don’t want to–" Blaine is saying and Kurt realizes he never answered.

He shakes his head quickly, fervently. "No, I do want to. That sounds fabulous actually." And there’s another one of those smiles that seem to light up Blaine’s entire face. It makes Kurt’s lips curl upwards in return.

They’re looking at each other without speaking, eyes locked on eyes. Kurt’s breathing heavily and somehow he’s wound up so close to Blaine that he can smell his cologne. They’re standing in the shadows just a few paces from a streetlight and it’s like time has slowed down. It occurs to Kurt that this might be a little closer to the rom-com moment he’d envisioned earlier, and he has zero clue what to do about that.

"I really want to kiss you right now," Blaine whispers and Kurt suddenly feels like he could just burst into tears with the intensity of it all; how can his life have taken such an about-turn in just an afternoon? He swallows hard and, taking a quick look to make sure there’s nobody waiting with a camera phone nearby, he tries for a nonchalant shrug.

"You can," Kurt says quietly, "if you like."

He swallows hard, his heart thundering like an express train in his chest. Blaine’s Adam’s apple bobs rapidly in his throat and he takes a step forward, fingers closing around Kurt’s bicep as though to steady himself. Kurt licks his lips, his eyes focused on Blaine’s mouth as Blaine closes his eyes. They’re just inches apart, Kurt can barely remember how to breathe, and then his cell rings, vibrating against his chest from the inside pocket of his jacket.

"Shit."

Blaine steps back as though he’s been burnt, flushing red and dragging a hand down his face.

"Shit," Kurt says again, fumbling desperately for the offending cell phone and wanting to reach out and grab Blaine by the hand to tug him back in, but not quite knowing how.

"It’s my dad," he says, and just like that the moment’s gone. Blaine smiles and shrugs, chewing on his bottom lip as Kurt mouths an apology. His dad grumbles in his ear when Kurt tells him that no, he’s not dead and he’s not actually late (as if he has a curfew anyway). He’s not a kid and yes he _knows_ how important this is, _Dad, thank you very much_ and “there’s a taxi right here” – Blaine’s just flagged it – and he’s getting in it, _yes, Dad,_ _alone_. He puts his hand over the mouthpiece as Blaine, ever the gentleman, holds open the cab door.

"I am so sorry about this, Blaine."

Blaine shakes his head, placing his hand over the back of Kurt’s where it rests against the open door and squeezing, smile warm and reassuring. He leans in, quickly as though he’s not giving himself a chance to think about it, and presses his lips to Kurt’s. It’s the briefest of touches, the barest glance of Blaine’s lips against his – and not even that, really, the kiss had landed on the corner of his mouth – but it’s a kiss all the same. Blaine straightens up with a flush high on his cheeks and he grins, shy and a little self-deprecating. Kurt smiles back, touching the tips of his fingers to the spot that Blaine’s lips just touched and feeling like he’s sixteen years old all over again.

"You have absolutely nothing to apologize about, Kurt. Go home, sleep, and be amazing tomorrow."

"You too," Kurt says softly. God, he has never ever hated his choice of career but right now he’d rather be anything other than a tennis player with a qualifying match in the morning. As his cab drives away he turns and looks out of the back window, sees Blaine standing on the street and watching him go with one hand raised in a wave.


	2. Chapter 2

Blaine feels refreshed in a way he rarely does in a bed that’s not his own when he wakes the morning after his date with Kurt. _His date with Kurt_ , he still can’t quite believe that happened. He had fallen into bed with his mind buzzing and full of laughter, of Kurt’s eyes, of the thought of what it would have been like to kiss him, really kiss him and not just a fleeting press of lips through a car window. He hadn’t imagined he’d ever fall into a deep and dreamless sleep, and can’t even bring himself to be bothered now by Wes, who has no idea about the meaning of boundaries, as he slips into Blaine’s room without knocking, perching on the edge of the bed and holding out a Starbucks cup.

"Up and at ‘em, Cowboy."

Blaine rolls his eyes, taking the cup gratefully. He knocks his knee, still housed beneath the covers, against the small of his friend’s back, pushing him gently off and to standing.

"Number one, Wesley, don’t ever call me ‘Cowboy,’ it’s creepy; number two, get the hell off my bed. Again, creepy."

"How was your date?" Wes asks, turning and leaning against the wall. Blaine props himself against his pillows and wrinkles his nose: it’s been years and yet still Wes can never remember that Blaine doesn’t take sugar in his coffee. Blaine can’t always bring himself to remind him, appreciates the gesture even when the drink itself is barely palatable.

"It was lovely. Thank you for asking." Blaine quirks an eyebrow; he knows exactly what Wes is asking ( _Did you drink the night before a big match, Blaine, even though you said you wouldn’t? Worse, did you get_ laid _?_ ) and he has no plans to dignify the unspoken questions with an answer.

Wes grins at him. "Lovely, huh?" Blaine takes another mouthful of the sub-par coffee and looks pointedly towards the other side of the room.

“Are you ready?" Wes says.

"Physically?" Blaine asks. "No. I’m in bed. Mentally, yes, I’m probably as ready as I’ll ever be. The question is, are _you_ ready for the fact that today might be the last match I ever play on the sacred lawns of Wimbledon?"

He ignores Wes’s affronted gasp, swinging his legs over the side of the mattress and padding barefoot in the direction of his bathroom, grateful (not for the first time in almost 20 years of friendship) that he doesn’t sleep naked.

He’s grateful, always, for the faith Wes has in him – it’s more than anybody else in his life has ever had and it’s unwavering. He’s a hard taskmaster, pushes Blaine harder than he’d ever be pushed otherwise and certainly harder than he’d ever push himself, but it comes from a certain belief that Blaine has got what it takes. As he stands beneath the shower spray he feels a little guilty that he’s only half joking – there is a large part of Blaine that doesn’t expect to win his match today. Worst of all, doesn’t care; he’s been here, he’s done all of this.

He _knows_ , because he reads the papers and has Internet access, what they’re saying about him, about the wild card, about his chances. Blaine’s spent so long fighting to prove himself and he’s bone-tired, he just wants to be _himself_ for once, to not have to be the best, to play tennis just for the hell of it rather than to prove to the world that he’s still got it. God, he doesn’t even think he can see the appeal of being a brand anymore, wonders sometimes if he ever did, and as much as he loves his game, is eternally grateful for the opportunities that have been afforded to him, there remains a part of him that would be perfectly satisfied to show up and play some tennis, then spend the next two weeks spectating.

Watching Kurt.

God, Blaine would love that, would love to see him play, to sit, watching him storm his way through the tournament. The pressure would be well and truly off to be anything other than just the guy that cheers for Kurt Hummel and maybe that’s weird, maybe it’s too much after just one date but there it is: the truth of the matter is that Blaine is looking forward to hopefully-maybe-possibly catching the tail end of Kurt’s match today so much more than he is looking forward to playing his own.

He’ll never tell Wes that though.

Instead he showers, slips into jogging bottoms and a t-shirt, checks his bag and his racket three times (so what if he’s a little superstitious? It’s gotten him this far), then he turns to Wes finally with a grin 

"Let’s do this thing."

**: :**

 

"You’re going to be amazing, kiddo." Burt Hummel pulls his son tight against his chest and squeezes hard. "And no matter the outcome, remember I’m proud of you."

In his arms Kurt squirms and tries to wriggle free, face red, his expression a mixture of frustrated and touched.

"If you don’t let go of me I won’t be able to play a single ball, I’ll be in the hospital with fractured ribs. Seriously, Dad, you don’t know your own strength."

Burt huffs out a laugh but lets him go and grins as Kurt busies himself getting ready, adjusting the strings of his racket. A tall woman with illegally long legs and in an almost indecently short tennis skirt sashays her way across the dressing room, and he fires her a tight smile.

"Look, Kurt," she says as she reaches him. Kurt holds up a hand, cutting her off mid-flow.

"Save it," he says, slipping his racket back into its case and gracefully standing. "I’ve got this, Coach. The guy I’m playing isn’t even that _good_ ; I could beat him with my eyes shut. Save your hard-ass pep talks for when you think making me cry will really make a difference."

"I don’t think we can afford to be arrogant–” Burt tries but she cuts him off, giving Kurt an appraising look.

"He’s right, Burt. He didn’t get here on his looks, _obviously_ -you’ve seen him with a racquet but even his talent isn’t enough on it’s own. Kurt got here because of his self-belief, which is something he should always be able to cling to."

There is nobody on this planet he can rely on the way he can rely on Holly Holliday – nobody, _nobody_ , has ever been as consistently awful to him as her, but at the same time there is nobody who has gotten as much out of him either. She makes his tennis great, she makes _him_ better.

His dad’s great and the man believes in Kurt so much that sometimes it frightens him – he thinks he might actually die were he to ever see disappointment in those eyes – but Coach Holliday, she’s something else. She’s power hungry and she’s self-absorbed and if she had even a tiny percentage of the power she thinks she has she’d be dangerous. She saw something in Kurt, stopped flirting with every man with a pulse long enough to see who he really is and everything she does (and pushes _Kurt_ to do) is for her benefit as much as his but Kurt trusts her. Raunchy and flirtatious she may be but Holly is the best in the business, and Kurt’s lucky to have her.

He nods at her as he heaves his bag onto his shoulders, reaches out and squeezes his dad’s hand.

"Is Blaine still playing?" he asks, looking from one to the other. He needs to know whether Blaine did okay before he steps through those doors and begins what the entire world has taken to calling _the tournament of his career_.

"Eyebrows Anderson?" Holly asks. She doesn’t make a comment or give him a look. Kurt can only assume Burt didn’t tell her who her protégé had dinner with last night and he flashes his dad a grateful smile that isn’t returned; clearly Burt is still not okay with Kurt’s not-date-that-actually-was-a-date. Kurt’s damned if he cares.

"He won," Holly continues, her expression suddenly thoughtful, "straight sets in fact. He’s supposed to be on his way out, I didn’t think he’d be a threat... but you might be right, maybe we need to keep an eye on him."

 

Kurt’s not listening. It might only be qualifying but Blaine _won._ He resists the urge to punch the air.

 

**: :**

 

Blaine thinks Kurt looks incredible on the court. He’s dressed, of course, in Wimbledon regulation all white, hair swept off his face with a white headband that makes him look somehow older and younger all at once. As he waits for his opponent to serve, and this is match point: if Kurt takes this then he’s won in straight sets,  he holds himself perfectly still, so still Blaine isn’t sure he’s even breathing, and then the ball is in the air and Kurt goes, almost feline in his movement, his reaction lightning fast as he returns the serve so the other guy doesn’t stand a chance at returning. And that’s it: the match is Kurt’s. The small crowd on Court Number 2 are on their feet, with Blaine amidst them.

He’s through.

Blaine watches as Kurt balls his hands into jubilant fists at his side, his celebration understated as he walks to the net and shakes hands, murmuring quiet words to his opponent. Kurt offers a small and almost _regal_ wave to the crowds and finally, _finally_ pushes his way back through to the changing rooms where he is being greeted by a small group of people – they must be his family. Blaine waits as Kurt hands his bag and his racket to a tall dark-haired man who, with an _"_ awesome job, bro, _"_ punches him on the shoulder so hard he winces. That must be Finn. A man in a Nike t-shirt and a slightly worn cap that bears the trademark “swoosh” pulls him into a bone-crushing hug, which Kurt returns ( _Dad, then?_ ). He holds the older man tight as he turns his head, listening intently to a tall slim woman dressed all in red. Then Kurt turns and his gaze lands on Blaine and his expression shifts into one of pure delight, like he can’t believe Blaine is really there, and Blaine can’t wait another moment.

He crosses the room quickly, coming to a sudden stop less than a foot away from Kurt. Kurt who is smiling – Blaine wants to pull him into a hug but he isn’t sure how well that would be received, not only by Kurt but by all these people that Blaine hasn’t even met yet, and so he doesn’t. He just grins and rolls forward onto the tips of his toes and back again.

"You were awesome," Blaine says.

Kurt shrugs, his smile widening. "Thanks, I... It, it wasn’t a hard match. I felt a bit bad, actually, for that poor guy."

"He’ll get his chance," Blaine reassures, thinks it’s sweet that Kurt cares.

"You did great, too, I believe? Think I’m not the only one to win today in straight sets."

He knows. His match began almost as Blaine’s finished so he can’t have watched it; the only way Kurt could possibly know Blaine’s result is if he went out of his way to find out, and that’s enough to make Blaine feel warm all the way down to the tips of his toes.

"Yeah." He nods.

It feels a little more awkward than he’d expected it to, standing here. Last night had been so easy and natural like they’d known each other forever and he’s not sure what it is that’s different right now, only that the space between them feels simultaneously too great and not big enough. There’s so much he wants to say but doesn’t have the nerve to, not to mention he’s so _so_ aware of all these people that matter to Kurt just hovering on the periphery of their conversation – and perhaps that’s what it is.

"Kurt?"

It’s the older man that speaks, stepping forward. Kurt flushes a little, shakes his head.

"God, I’m sorry. How rude of me. Dad, this is Blaine Anderson, Blaine, my dad Burt. And my brother Finn. And Holly... Coach Holliday." He gestures to each of them in turn.

Blaine smiles his most charming smile, raises a hand to Finn who smiles and nods, saying, "Hey, dude." He looks to Kurt’s coach, who is looking back like she wants to devour him, all sultry eyes and coy smile, and there is something about her which scares him to his very _core._ Then Blaine turns to Kurt’s father, holding out his hand and turning his smile up just a notch.

"It’s good to meet you, Mr. Hummel. Sir."

Mr. Hummel looks startled, pauses for a second before grasping Blaine’s hand, his handshake solid and firm. He returns Blaine’s greeting, a gruff " _likewise”_ as he looks Blaine up and down that makes Blaine suspect he doesn’t quite mean it, which is fine because he’s probably assuming (correctly) that Blaine has designs on his son. He’s probably also of the (incorrect, so so incorrect) opinion that it’s a terrible idea. Blaine gets his apprehension – he’s older than Kurt by quite a margin, they’re officially competitors now, and the middle of what is arguably the biggest Grand Slam in the world is possibly not the best time to be starting anything. Kurt really needs to have his head in the game but Blaine knows somehow, right in the core of him, that this is _something_ for them both. He doesn’t care if they only met yesterday, he just knows. Further, he knows he can get Kurt’s slightly overbearing father on his side if he just tries _hard_.

"Kurt played some phenomenal tennis out there today," he tries, turning a little to smile at Kurt, who’s huffing beside him.

"I’d hardly say phenomenal, Blaine; I barely broke a sweat."

"Which in itself is phenomenal," he teases, turning back to Mr. Hummel. "Word on the street is that Kurt could win this. That must make you proud."

"Everything Kurt does makes me proud,” he retorts, his expression softening as he turns to glance at his son. "–but we’re a long way off yet. If Kurt’s to stand a chance at this he needs to be totally, one hundred percent focused."

"Standing right here, Dad, and feeling extremely focused, thank you. Now, I’m going to shower and then Blaine, are we still grabbing a bite?"

Blaine nods vigorously, not quite daring to look over at Burt Hummel – he can feel the tension radiating off him in waves.

"Kurt. Holly and I, the three of us need to sit down and..."

"Later,” Kurt says firmly, fixing his dad with a look that leaves no room for argument. "We can do that later, first Blaine and I are celebrating."

 

**: :**

 

"This place is cute," Kurt says approvingly after lunch, sliding a card from his wallet and placing it on top of the bill, waving away Blaine’s protests with a mock stern stare. "I like it."

Blaine grins, wonders what it is about Kurt’s approval that makes him feel this good. He can’t remember the last time he felt so instantly relaxed around another person and it’s nice, being able to be himself, to watch Kurt come to life, to laugh at his jokes and have his own jokes laughed at in return, to talk and talk and talk and see that little flush appear high on Kurt’s cheeks whenever he dares to flirt, just a little. He could get used to this, he thinks, to Kurt. It should scare him – they just met _yesterday_ – but instead all he can think is that he wants _more._

"I like it too." The pause has gone a beat too long and he has to say something. Something that isn’t _I think I might be falling for you_.

"Wes and I come here a lot when we’re in London. The club sandwich is to die for, right? _I told you so._ And it’s not the type of place where we’re lightly to be hassled.I mean nobody even recognized us, I don’t think; I don’t think we’re going to be on the cover of the newspapers tomorrow."

Kurt laughs and it’s like music. Blaine thinks it might be his new favorite sound.

"I don’t think I’ve ever been on the cover of anything that wasn’t pre-arranged for publicity. It sounds kind of exciting."

Blaine raises his eyebrows comically, hoping to make Kurt laugh again. It works. Blaine wants to live right here in this moment forever, sitting across from Kurt while half-heartedly squabbling over a bill and just _laughing_. Wimbledon be damned.

"What?" Kurt keys in his pin number, smiles a thanks at the waitress and turns back to Blaine. "I haven’t. I mean, apart from, you know," and he lowers his voice and leans forward, making exaggerated air quotes around his next words, " _the gay,_ I’ve been successfully scandal free – and even that barely made a ripple. I mean, look at me." He looks down at his chest and back up at Blaine and smiles self-deprecatingly. "–I don’t really think there’s been a day in my life I’ve been able to pass."

"I think you look perfect," Blaine says. He means it but Kurt just rolls his eyes, touches his foot to Blaine’s under the table.

"Charmer. I know I look _good_ , and I don’t want to be anything other than this, not anymore. I like the skin I’m in; it’s extremely well looked after. I’m just saying, would a sex scandal really be that awful?"

"It would for me," Blaine retorts. "Your dad is already plotting the best way to kill me, I know it."

"He’s a pussycat, I swear. And imagine the _headlines,_ Blaine."

"I can." Blaine fans his hands in front of him, affects a newsreader voice. " _Tennis superstar cut down in his prime, tragically murdered by gruff man in baseball cap. A tragic loss to tennis and indeed the world."_

"In your prime," Kurt scoffs, sliding out of the booth and grabbing his jacket. "Last night you were ready to retire." He says it fondly, holding out a hand to haul Blaine to his feet. His fingers are cool against Blaine’s – Blaine always has warm hands – and he doesn’t want to let go, wonders if it would be that bad for them to walk out of the little café hand in hand, wonders how Kurt would feel. Kurt gives his hand a squeeze and drops it to shove lightly at his shoulder instead. "And my Dad is not gruff."

"What can I say? I’m a tennis player, not a journalist, Kurt; I don’t write the headlines. And he seemed pretty gruff to me. Gruff and murderous."

It’s cool outside, the sky a murky gray. Blaine tugs his jacket a little tighter around himself. He never quite gets used to it, the way the British summertime is so vastly different to home's. It’s not _cold_ but he’s never been hot here either, not the way he can be in New York's summer, lounging on a bench in Washington Square Park and watching the world go by. There always seems to be that threat of rain in London: clouds in the sky tease as the July breeze blows an empty crisp packet past their feet so it comes to rest on a grate at the street corner.

Blaine doesn’t want to go back, doesn’t want their all-too-brief lunch date to to be over. He can imagine instead an afternoon spent grabbing black taxis and red open-top buses, walking along the Embankment and over Tower Bridge with Kurt’s hand tucked through his arm. Can see himself buying Kurt a mug that declares "I ♥ London" from a shop on a street corner and seeing Kurt’s eyes crinkle as he smiles at the sentiment.

"When we have some time, some proper time," he says suddenly, before he loses his nerve, "we should go sightseeing. Like proper tourists. Trafalgar Square and the London Eye–"

"Buckingham Palace!" Kurt practically jumps up and down on the spot. "God, I _love_ the Queen."

"Then we’ll go there first," Blaine offers.

"I wish we could go _now_ ," Kurt says softly. "I don’t want this to be over. I don’t want to go back."

"It’s not over," Blaine murmurs back, reaching out to adjust the lapel of Kurt’s jacket, wonders if he can feel the way the air seems to have shifted between them or whether it’s just his own want that hangs there, heavy. "It’s just on hold."

"On hold," Kurt echoes. "Jesus, if you’d told me last month I’d be wanting to do anything right now that wasn’t tennis-related I’d have laughed you out of America but honestly? The last thing I want to do right now is go for a run and discuss tactics."

"We could run together, if you want, before you meet with your dad? If you don’t think he'll mind, or your coach will."

They will mind, Blaine’s sure of it; he knows Wes, too, will be less than impressed. Blaine could try and talk his way out of it – he and Kurt, they still need to train and training with other professionals is hardly unheard of – but deep down Blaine knows this is a bad idea, for both of them. This is _Wimbledon_ and anything that takes even a fraction of their attention from what they’re here to do should be avoided at all costs, but Kurt is smiling again and Blaine, he’s only human.

 

**: :**

 

Kurt’s always found running to be useful for getting his thoughts in order: something about the repetitiveness of his feet pounding against the ground is conducive to figuring things out. Clearly, though, when running with Blaine Anderson that doesn’t apply. The thing that Kurt can’t quite get his head around as they run; as they lean panting against a wall and share a lukewarm bottle of water; as they grin at each other, all adrenaline-driven, before heading into the showers; and as Blaine flops into a seat just across from him later in the player’s lounge, the toe of his sneaker pressing unobtrusively against Kurt’s own foot – is how _easy_ this is. It makes no sense, really, he muses, nodding his head at Blaine’s offer of a drink and glancing quickly at his watch – does he even have time for a quick drink before he faces the wrath of his father and Holly? It makes no sense and yet it is so, all the same.

This is _Blaine Anderson_ and whether they move in the same circles now or not, whether Blaine is now the underdog and Kurt has the hopes and dreams of his nation resting on his shoulders, the fact remains that Blaine Anderson was (and actually _is_ , who is Kurt trying to kid?) his celebrity crush. People don’t run into their celebrity crushes on the tennis court and fall immediately into a ridiculously easy friendship with the hint of something more. People’s celebrity crushes do not _steal kisses from said people through cab windows_.

That sort of thing doesn’t happen to anybody, and certainly not to people like Kurt.

Kurt who was bullied throughout his entire high school career because of his sexuality, even his possession of a Letterman jacket failing to provide a buffer – not that it would because Kurt never _wore_ it, the bright red a glaring reminder of dumpster tosses and bruises but still, the fact Kurt _could_ wear it if he wanted was supposed to mean something, wasn’t it? It would have been worse, he knew, if he hadn’t had tennis, if he hadn’t been pulled away for this training session or that competition. If he’d been forced to be in constant contact with his tormentors then things would have been different – Kurt might not even be _here_ , at least not in the way he is now – and he is grateful. The fact remains Kurt does know more about what the inside of a dumpster looks like than most of the kids he went to school with, and there’s no arguing that that’s shit.

Kurt who came out to his dad and then came out to his coach and then came out to the freaking _world,_ whohad to read stupid stupid inaccurate articles about himself in newspapers and magazines, had to sit back and watch as his sexuality meant more than his _game_ when he worked so hard to be good at his craft. Kurt who’d never even been kissed until his nineteenth birthday.

Kurt who’d had a boyfriend, for a while, in a shy stumbling _awkward_ relationship where they’d both been each others firsts but had quickly realized the only thing they had in common was their sexuality. That had been followed by another – well, he couldn’t even call it a relationship when it was more like a series of hook-ups – with a guy that Kurt was really really into, a guy who was actually just waiting to sell his story to the papers. He'd finally learned to be glad he had a good PR team as he hid away in Rachel’s New York penthouse and nursed a not-quite-broken-but-definitely-badly-bruised heart.

Things like this, things like _Blaine Anderson_ do not happen to people like Kurt, they just don’t, but they _are_ happening. Blaine is buying him a drink and sitting back down and letting his foot rest against Kurt’s again in a way that’s too casual to be accidental... God, Kurt still has a photo of him on the inside of his closet door back home – is that some kind of fucked up metaphor? Blaine’s eyes positively _sparkle_ (seriously, he shouldn’t be allowed to be this attractive when he hasn't been photoshopped, it’s just not fair) as he smiles at Kurt; as he hangs on Kurt’s every word; as he bites down on his lower lip and flushes and looks away (and Kurt realizes he just unwittingly flirted again and _Blaine seemed to like it, again,_ Kurt wants to pinch himself). He wants to pinch himself, but more than that he wants to take Blaine Anderson by the hand and drag him out of this too-busy bar and find a quiet corner to just kiss him properly, not because he’s Blaine Anderson the crush but because he’s Blaine who likes bowties and loves hair gel and hates that he’s forced to wear white to play here because he thinks he plays better in red. Blaine who might have studied theater if he hadn’t fallen for tennis and who hints at insecurities and vulnerabilities that make Kurt want to wrap him up and just hold him safe for always; who has so many layers that Kurt just wants to unravel; who is earnest and genuine and funny; and who Kurt thinks he just might be falling for.


	3. Chapter 3

Blaine doesn’t see Kurt properly at all over the next couple of days. Kurt has a match that Blaine can’t watch because of press and as fun as it will always be to horse around with John McEnroe and call it work, it kind of feels like it’s in the way, like his place maybe isn’t here doing this anymore, but there on Court Number 2 with Kurt. Then Blaine has a match. Kurt’s dad is obviously keeping him on lockdown; afterwards he catches a glimpse of Kurt as he and his dad cross the lounge together, and a raise of Blaine’s hand is rewarded with a flash of that smile before Burt is pressing a hand to his son’s back and ushering him away. Still, it’s enough to make him feel warm to his toes for the rest of the day. They have third round matches that clash and it’s so frustrating; they’re both working and it’s tough knowing that at any given point Kurt is probably less than a quarter mile away from him yet he might as well be on another continent.

Blaine _misses_ him.

There are text messages and quick coffee breaks and five minute exchanges in the changing rooms and phone calls late at night that go on ‘til they’re both so tired they can barely speak but there’s nothing solid, nothing concrete, nothing that feels even remotely like _enough._ It feels weird, how in just a couple of days he’s grown used to Kurt’s presence, his dry wit and his lilting laugh and the cool press of his fingertips against the back of Blaine’s hand when he needs  to make a point. He doesn’t know what’s going on, really, or what it is that he’s feeling but he feels like there’s fire in his veins again and he channels it all into his tennis. God, maybe it’s naive and ridiculous and _pathetic_ to put the sudden improvement in his game down to the influence of a boy he’s known barely a week but there it is. Blaine didn’t care and now he does and the most – the only – variable factor is Kurt.

He grabs dinner with Wes most nights because it’s habit, because Kurt hasn’t suggested anything else and Blaine doesn’t want to push. Wes tries to ask questions about Kurt and sees how quickly Blaine grows misty-eyed; he probably has so much he wants to say about that but also sees how Blaine is leaning forward, is enthusiastic, is talking like he actually wants to play at this tournament for the first time this year. The type of guy to look a gift horse in the mouth Wes is not.

Blaine gets a text from Kurt just before he goes to bed on Friday night: _"Almost halfway there! I promised I’d watch Rachel’s match tomorrow. Join me after you’re done? And good luck."_ It takes him less than ten seconds to fire off a reply in the affirmative. He should probably be worried about his own match – he’s _so_ close to the quarterfinals next week and that’s pretty good going for the wildcard, it puts him up there with a chance – but he’s not, he’s not at all. He knows Kurt is through and knows if he wants to spend more time with him then he has to get through, too. That’s enough to make him want to work harder, play better; he falls asleep with a smile on his face and dreams of winning the Championship with Kurt’s hand in his.

 

**: :**

 

Blaine wins his fourth round match. Kurt isn’t surprised: Blaine is good no matter how disheartened he might be right now, no matter how _old_ he might feel. Kurt didn’t worship him from afar purely for his good looks... God, he might want to stop thinking about the worship part now, because that’s slightly more creepy when you actually know the person. He makes a mental note to ask Carole to take down the poster in his room the next time they talk.

Blaine’s an all-court player and he plays well. Kurt has spent so many years watching him that he’s familiar with the way he moves around the court, and it makes Kurt smile to sit and watch him now: the double bounce of the ball before he serves; the way he shimmies when he scores a point, so adorably; the way nine times out of ten he’ll try to hit an offensive shot on his return. It feels good to recognize that all of these things, they’re Blaine’s, and Kurt knows him as a real person, not just somebody to aspire to.  He wonders if it has anything to do with him, with the conversations they’ve had – because this Blaine, the one on the court now, is not the Blaine who didn’t care, who was giving up. This is _Blaine_ serving aces and barely missing a shot. His running forehand is still the best Kurt has ever seen, and he wonders what would happen were they to face each other. A couple of years ago Blaine was up there with the greatest all-court players of all time, he probably still is when he’s on point like he is today.

That was a great shot just there and he just broke the serve – _go on Blaine_ – and even knowing his game, knowing _him,_ Kurt finds him hard to read. Kurt feels kind of sorry for his opponent; Blaine’s constructing the game for fun, drawing the other guy to the net and hitting him with a passing shot time and time again. It almost looks too easy; Kurt can’t help the smug grin.

He rushes away once the match is over. He tells himself it’s because Rachel will be looking for him the second she steps on the court for her own match and he isn’t in the mood for one of her tantrums if he doesn’t show, but it’s more than that: for some reason he doesn’t want Blaine to know he was watching.

The match is four games in by the time Blaine slips into the empty seat beside him. They’re on Court Number 1 – Rachel is favorite to win this thing, and they’ve just stopped for new balls.

"Hey."

Kurt turns at the sound of Blaine’s voice and grins, taking the proffered bowl from the man’s hand with a raise of his eyebrows.

"Strawberries and cream, Blaine, really?"

Blaine shrugs. "If you’re going to do it, you’ve got to do it right.”

Kurt smiles so hard his face hurts. He has _never_ done this, been a proper spectator. He knows how it goes, the talk of fancy hats, of strawberries and cream, of paying over the odds for a glass of Pimm’s, of the days when some over-the-hill British pop star would entertain the crowd during a rain break on the days before the Centre Court roof... but he’s never lived it. It’s always been work before – he’s either been on court, or training, or watching matches to learn about opponents – and even while watching Rachel he’s never switched off before, never done it just for the sheer hell of it. Suddenly it strikes him that for somebody who loves this game as much as he does, that’s rather tragic. He can’t bring himself to care that much though, because he’s doing it now and he’s doing it with Blaine next to him, so close that they’re pressed together thigh to thigh. Blaine is feeding himself strawberries and flicking out his tongue to catch a drop of cream at the corner of his mouth – Kurt really _really_ wants to kiss him.

He grins at Kurt once he’s done, places the empty bowl carefully on the floor beneath his seat and leans forwards, eyes moving from side to side following the ball. Blaine oohs and aahs along with the crowd, punching the air victoriously when Rachel scores a particularly good point and joining in with the slow rhythmic clap when she challenges a call. He mutters a "damn, I was sure she was right” when the umpire leans into the microphone (" _Miss Berry has two challenges remaining’)_ and Kurt just can’t stop smiling. Rachel is beyond good; she’s going to win this match in straight sets and Kurt is so proud of her, so pleased that Blaine gets to see her play like this and so pleased that they’re here because watching your best friend play tennis with the hot guy you’re really into, who’s leaning closer than he needs to so as to whisper in your ear? It’s fun.  

The match is being televised, he tells Blaine. The players have just made their way to their seats, the next game will be the last one. Rachel takes a long mouthful from her drink – and _yes_ , Kurt had told Blaine earlier, it is true that she’ll only drink water from French Springs when she’s playing – and she looks back over her shoulder, meeting Kurt’s eye and raising her eyebrows. If the match is being televised then the cameras have probably picked that up which means, and maybe they should have thought of this before, that there’ll be some backlash.

Blaine just shrugs his shoulders easily, his smile open and genuine and not in the least bit worried.

"We’re just two tennis players watching another tennis player play tennis," he says, and perhaps it’s the Pimm’s Blaine bought after the second set but Kurt thinks it sounds like a tongue twister. He wonders if he could say it three times fast but doesn’t try because Blaine is still talking.

"This is our downtime, we have no matches ‘til next week. We love tennis. It would be weird if we didn’t try to watch at least one match, wouldn’t it?"

Kurt supposes it would. He hopes that’s the way the world sees it – for all his jokes about a sex scandal the other night it’s not exactly at the top of his agenda right now. He hopes that’s the way his dad sees it too.

 

**: :**

 

"Well well well, aren’t you a _pretty_ face."

Kurt turns at the sound of the voice that isn’t Blaine’s, the tone mocking rather than complimentary, and feels himself tense a little as the long and lean-figured man slides gracefully into the seat beside him. This is not how his evening is supposed to go; it’s supposed to be Blaine sitting there and they’re supposed to have just one drink before going back to Kurt’s house. His dad is out and Holly is too, probably hitting up some dodgy karaoke bar in a low cut top, and if Finn has any sense he’ll have taken Rachel out because the girl is so wrapped up in her game that if she doesn’t relax soon she’s going to self combust. So maybe finally, _finally_ because these last few days feel like a veritable lifetime, he can actually discover the feeling of Blaine’s lips on his for more than a split second. They’ve been spending as much time together as they can, training together, watching matches together, going for long walks around Wimbledon’s streets together, and dining together, but it still isn’t enough. Kurt is actually at the stage now where if he isn’t kissed in the next four hour time frame he will actually _die_ and it will be a terrible tragedy from which his father and Rachel and maybe – dare he think it – Blaine or possibly even the _world_ will never recover.

Instead, Blaine is someplace else, _late,_ and Sebastian Smythe is sitting in his seat like he owns it, which in itself is odd because Kurt’s never even met the guy and his half-insult hardly feels like an introduction.

Kurt knows who Sebastian Smythe _is_ , of course he does: if the pundits are right then Sebastian is probably his biggest threat in this competition, so Holly’s had Kurt watching playback of his matches over and over.  What he doesn’t know is why Sebastian is here, talking to him. Kurt’s heard the rumors about Sebastian and Blaine. He doesn’t know how true they are; knows a lot of what he reads is rubbish, knows there’s never been any concrete proof of a relationship between the two, just a leading comment from Sebastian and the odd photograph of them at the same social events. In the days when Kurt would find himself googling Blaine’s name, Blaine and Sebastian, _Seblaine_ , had quite a following – all rumors stem from something, don’t they? Okay, Blaine has never mentioned anything, but then why would he? They’re just in the beginning of whatever this is between them; he can’t imagine it would ever have crossed Blaine’s mind to say " _Hey Kurt, you’re not the first rising star I’ve done this with."_

Suddenly, with stomach-twisting clarity, he hopes it’s not true. He has no right to hope it, has no claim to Blaine and certainly no claim to his past, but he does anyway because he feels something for Blaine, however stupid that might seem so soon. While Kurt knows enough to know he shouldn’t trust everything he reads, despite himself he doesn’t think he likes what he knows of Sebastian, doesn’t like his dirty tactics and doesn’t like his arrogance, the way he sells himself in interviews and in the media. Kurt can’t imagine he’d ever be Blaine’s type and if he was, once, then what are the chances of Kurt being Blaine’s type now?

"You don’t stand a chance with Blaine, you know. I can tell by looking at you that you’ll never give him what he needs. Blaine likes it rough – he likes it dirty, he likes being fucked hard up against a wall in the showers after a four-hour match by a man who knows exactly how to make him come so hard he can’t even stand it."

Sebastian says it conversationally, with one long leg crossed over the other as he runs a finger around the rim of his whiskey tumbler, in the same way one might remark upon the weather. He just launches right in. Kurt curls his lip in distaste, hopes he’s not blushing (because he feels like he is) and refrains from responding, glancing quickly at his still-silent phone and wishing Blaine would just get here already. He can’t help wriggling a little in his seat because he is so totally out of his comfort zone right now–

"I’ve seen you _shadowing_ him around this week like a lost little puppy dog, I know your type," Sebastian continues. "Blaine, he’s sex on a stick and plays like a _dream_ ; I bet his face is all over your bedroom wall back home in Iowa or wherever the fuck it is you’re trying to escape from but here’s the thing, sweetheart, Blaine is not the innocent pretty face from your posters. Blaine is looking for a _man,_ not some kid who plays a reasonably good game of tennis but who hasn’t got the balls – pun intended, darling – to push his knees up to his chest and screw him ‘til he can’t remember his name."

"A man? That puts you out of the running then, doesn’t it?" Kurt retorts. “A _man_ would realize it takes talent to win in a game like this, not the ability to throw around insults.” Sebastian is obviously trying to make him uncomfortable and Kurt’s damned if he’s going to let him know he’s succeeded. He looks Sebastian over from head to toe and raises an eyebrow. "Why don’t you leave me alone and go back to your ‘90s cartoon, Chipmunk?"

He wonders where Blaine is – it’s not like him to be late but Kurt has been here for 15 minutes already and his phone, resting on the table in front of him, has remained resolutely silent. He hopes wherever he is, he gets here fast because Sebastian Smythe has one of those faces you just want to plant your fist in, and Kurt has never landed a punch in his life.

"Let’s get one thing straight..." Sebastian leans forward, forearms resting on his thighs and his stare piercing as he looks right into Kurt’s eyes. "Blaine and I go _way_ back. I know what he likes; I was _giving_ him what he liked before he even knew he liked it. And this championship has my name written all over it. I’ve already won it once and so I am not in the least bit threatened by a little boy who’s trying to kid himself he’s something he’s not. All the big name endorsements and fancy backhands in the world can’t cover up for the fact that we both know you’ve bitten off more than you can chew. You’re just a small time guy playing better-than-average tennis and this fucking world you’ve stumbled into? It’s going to eat you up and spit you out, because you know as well as I do that you’re just _not_ _good enough_. For this tournament or for Blaine. Why don’t _you_ run on back to your small town YMCA, because by the end of this tournament one of us will have Anderson _and_ the Wimbledon trophy..."

"And it won’t be you, Sebastian."

It’s Blaine, _finally,_ dropping onto the arm of Kurt’s chair, placing his hand on the back of Kurt’s neck and squeezing gently, reassuringly. Kurt leans into the touch, he can’t help it; he’s never been so pleased to see Blaine in his life, has to fight to keep the smug smile off his face because even if it’s true that Blaine and Sebastian do have a history, Kurt has to focus on the fact that it seems like it’s just that. It’s him, _Kurt_ , that Blaine sat close to, it’s Kurt’s hair that he is gently, discreetly running his fingers through. Kurt has never been so tempted to make a vulgar hand gesture in his _life_.

“I am so sorry I’m late Kurt, I swear you wouldn’t believe the day I’ve had. My Goddamn brother just showed up and… you know what, I’ll fill you in later, I’m just. I’m sorry I’m late."

If Sebastian, the weasel, is perturbed by Blaine’s sudden reappearance and subtle allegiance to Kurt then he doesn’t show it, just gives Blaine an appreciative smile. Kurt doesn’t even have chance to accept Blaine’s apology before Sebastian is leaning forwards, trying to bridge the gap.

"Still undeniably fuckable, B." The nickname makes Kurt cringe. "You’re looking great; if anyone’s a threat to my championship chances then it’s you, huh?"

"I’d be flattered if I didn’t think you were trying to charm your way into my pants again, Seb."  

Blaine doesn’t sound pissed though, more amused than anything and a little more familiar with Sebastian that Kurt feels altogether happy about – he wonders what the "again” refers to, exactly. Blaine’s mouth curls in a wry smile as his hand still rests on the back of Kurt’s neck. Kurt can’t quite figure it out, the dynamic between these two, wonders if it’s crazy to even try; maybe some things he’s better off not knowing.

"Still got that chastity belt fastened as tight as ever, then."

Blaine laughs at that, leaning in a little closer to Kurt, pressing their bodies together. Kurt still has no clue what’s going on here, but he leans back anyway because the solid weight of Blaine against him is too tempting to ignore.

"A fact which is only a problem for you, because you don’t have the key."

"You’re right." Sebastian’s grinning now and it’s somehow a little less predatory, a little more affectionate. It makes Kurt’s stomach twist unpleasantly. "I should never have given it back to you."

Blaine stands, holding out a hand and tugging Kurt up with him, gripping his hip as he stumbles a little and smiling at him fondly before shifting his expression into something that is still a smile but a little more schooled as he turns back to Sebastian.

"You need some new lines, Seb. Now, if you’ll excuse us, Kurt and I have plans."

Sebastian grins, raises his glass at them and take a sip.

"So long, gorgeous. I’m sure you still have my number for when you realize exactly what you’re missing out on." He turns to Kurt: "Hope you’re ready to have your heart broken."

"I’d say it was nice to meet you," Kurt says as Blaine laces their fingers together and tugs him gently in the direction of the door. "–but I was brought up never to lie."

"I don’t like you at all," Sebastian says, still in that lightly conversational tone.

Kurt just raises an eyebrow again. "Goodbye, Sebastian. And invest in some skin cream; your crow’s feet make you look at least three times your age under the cameras ."

 

**: :**

 

Blaine feels almost guilty as he all but drags Kurt out of the Players’ Lounge by the hand. He’s not entirely sure why; he did nothing wrong and Sebastian isn’t a bad guy, he’s mostly just _talk_ , trying to cover up for a whole mess of insecurities. Blaine would _probably_ be his friend if Sebastian would just stop being a dick long enough to let him in, had even tried to be the man’s friend for a while, but it had gotten him nowhere except laid. Blaine doesn’t believe in regrets, really, but sleeping with Sebastian sure as hell feels like one sometimes – he can be utterly insufferable when he wants to be and he’s so damn _persistent_. Blaine has lost track of how long he’s been rejecting his advances.

Once upon a time he would have been up for more than a fling, but Blaine never wanted to be anybody’s plaything; he wants _romance_ and Sebastian is so cruel when things don’t go his way or when he thinks somebody might be close to breaking past that carefully painted façade. He’d only caught the back end of what Sebastian had been saying to Kurt and it hadn’t been pretty. He dreads to think what might have come beforehand, what other insults and half-truths he might have thrown at Kurt.

It’s almost dark outside; play is over for the day and only a few people are still milling about, players and their support teams dipping into the lounge for one last drink before everyone heads home for the night. The night team of security and cleaners head in to make things ready for the early morning crowds. It’s a different place altogether by dark and still holding Kurt by the hand Blaine tugs him away from the doors and the still bright lights, into the shadows. They’re a ten minute’s walk (if that) from Kurt’s "home” and they should probably head back but Blaine’s worried, he can’t wait.

"Nothing is going on with me and him." He says it quickly, turning Kurt to face him and taking hold of his free hand so both Kurt’s hands are clasped in his. Kurt quirks an eyebrow, a little bit amused and a little bit puzzled.

"Sebastian. He’s all talk. Or maybe he’s not, I don’t know, maybe he’d have no qualms about putting his money where his mouth is. The point is I don’t want his money or his mouth anywhere near me – I’m not interested in Sebastian, not now anyway. I’m not going to _lie_ to you, Kurt, you deserve better than that... so yes, we do have a past but it was never anything serious and it is exactly that, past. I have zero interest in bringing it into the present because he’s selfish and angry and obstinate and he doesn’t think about anybody but himself and keeps his brain in his dick and I swear to you he’s absolutely not my– oh!"

Those are Kurt’s lips. On Blaine’s lips. They’re kissing, and it takes Blaine a second to catch up but when he does? It’s glorious. Kurt’s hands have come up to bracket Blaine’s face, his lips pressing and parting slightly – Blaine’s tongue is gently sweeping across his bottom lip and Kurt tastes like coffee and perfection. He pulls back then and can feel himself blush, is so glad they’ve walked into the shade.

"Okay?" Kurt’s voice is soft and a little nervous; Blaine can see him worrying his lower lip with his teeth and it makes his heart beat that little bit faster, except what if Kurt thinks he stopped because he didn’t want to kiss him? So Blaine nods, places one hand at the back of Kurt’s head where it curves into his neck and draws him forwards again, closing his eyes, flicking his tongue out to brush it against Kurt’s lips again. He gently slips his tongue between them and then Kurt’s kissing him back.

It’s still glorious.

Blaine can feel Kurt’s tongue flickering against his own, Kurt’s hand moving back up to cup his face, and it’s like no kiss Blaine has ever had before in his _life._ He feels like he’s falling, like he’s losing sight of everything but Kurt: the taste and the feel of him, the way Kurt’s teeth nip at his lips, the low moan he lets out when his tongue finds its way into Blaine’s mouth again. His fingers are tangled in Blaine’s hair now and Blaine is so _so_ glad he didn’t have time for product after his shower because the way Kurt is gripping him as they kiss is the hottest thing he thinks he’s ever experienced – it’s kind of possessive, like Kurt is staking his claim, and that just does things to Blaine. When he finally pulls away reluctantly, resting his forehead gently against Kurt’s, they’re both gasping for breath.

"Come on," Blaine says, pressing his lips to Kurt’s again, a dry close-mouthed kiss before pulling away, running his hand down the length of Kurt’s arms and tangling their fingers together. "I’ll walk you home."

Kurt just nods his head and grins a wide face-splitting smile that lights up his whole face, his eyes and nose crinkling. Blaine feels like his life thus far has been comprised mostly of the fights with his father and the never quite being good enough; the fight to be at the top of his game and the feeling of slipping right back down; the _want_ that’s threatened to engulf him some days, to love and be loved; and the fated romances that have never quite completed him in the way he’s always wanted, like somehow Blaine’s a jigsaw with that one vital piece missing. But now, with Kurt’s fingers cool against his, their entwined hands swinging loosely between them as they talk and walk in the direction of Kurt’s accommodation, with hats pulled down and collars turned up (both against the cool summer breeze and the everpresent threat of camera phones in the darkness), Blaine wonders if this is what it’s all been for, if all of it – the loneliness, _everything_ – has all just been a build-up to this. To Kurt.

It should probably frighten him – God, it would surely scare Kurt were he to say it out loud – but it doesn’t, it just feels like finally Blaine has found his reason. Yeah okay, maybe that just makes him a hopeless romantic but there aren’t enough of those in this world. As they turn the corner to his road Kurt’s talking about the Quarterfinals and the new jacket he’s going to treat himself to if he gets through, and he’s just so easy to, to... can Blaine say love quite yet? Perhaps not. Kurt makes it so easy to _feel_.

He kisses Kurt again on the doorstep. The security light illuminates the path behind them but casts them in shade as they huddle close together with Kurt’s back pressed up against the green wooden door and Blaine leans in, flicks his tongue against Kurt’s lips, teasing them open. He marvels at how quickly this has become familiar, the feel of Kurt’s lips on his. Kurt’s gripping his upper arms almost hard enough to hurt and when Blaine dares to open his eyes for the briefest of seconds Kurt’s are closed, long eyelashes against soft skin – somehow it just makes Blaine want to kiss him more. To kiss him and not ever stop, to kiss him until he no longer knows where Kurt ends and he begins, ‘til the space between them is nothing at all. He wishes Kurt had a hotel and not this house. Wishes they could go back to Blaine’s hotel room: Blaine could text Wes and tell him not to come anywhere in the general vicinity on pain of death, he could lay Kurt out on his Super King size bed and kiss him so deeply they both forget their names.

But instead Kurt has this house, with a rose bush in the garden and a brass knocker on the door – the door that opens so suddenly Kurt stumbles backwards, still holding Blaine’s arms and pulling him, too, into the solid weight of Kurt’s dad.

Well fuck.

Burt Hummel is standing behind them, setting Kurt upright again and looking at Blaine like he’d like to rip his head off. Blaine drops Kurt’s arms lightning fast and takes a step back; Kurt’s blushing so red that Blaine just knows his skin will be hot to the touch, and the silence amongst them is the loudest thing Blaine’s ever heard.

It’s Burt that breaks it, his gaze not wavering from Blaine even for a second as he speaks: "I think it’s time to go inside, Kurt."

Blaine wants to protest – Kurt’s not a _child_ , he hasn’t stayed out past a curfew. He’s a grown man and he’s allowed to kiss his boyfriend ( _and_ _yes_ _they’re using that word now, thank you very much)_ if he wants to. He doesn’t say a word in protest because Burt Hummel is big man; he’s like a man giant, like a man bear all gruff and burly with his hands the size of shovels and the strength of a thousand men, a thousand _big bears_. The man could probably crush small little pocket-sized Blaine with one hand and not even break a sweat. Blaine has tennis to play and a manager who can wound with words the way he’s sure Burt Hummel can (and likely will) wound with those hands, so while Blaine is absolutely not _scared_ of Wes, he doesn’t necessarily want to get on the wrong side of him either.

"Kurt."

Kurt’s still not looking away, still not focusing on anything other than Blaine. Blaine thinks he might vomit. Kurt opens his mouth as though to protest but then thinks better of it, sighs heavily and mutters, "I’d be kicking up more of a stink if you didn’t have a weak heart, I hope you know that," before leaning in and pressing his lips briefly to Blaine’s. _Oh my God, Kurt,_ Blaine thinks, _What are you even doing right now? Your dad is a beast and you might as well sign my death certificate yourself._

"I’ll see you tomorrow," Kurt says softly, firmly. "Goodnight, Blaine.” Then with a smile for him and a glare for his father he’s inside the house and Blaine is alone with the man who plans to kill him – he wishes he worked for MI6 instead of playing a stupid ball game because James Bond never gets into predicaments like this.

"So, Blaine."

Oh fuckety fuck. Burt wants to talk before he kills him and Blaine can’t remember _how_ to talk. (If not MI5 then maybe he could be a wizard, he’d love to Apparate the fuck out of here right about now.)

"Sir?"

Burt huffs out a sigh, runs a hand over his face. Blaine wonders for a brief second if he ever takes off that cap.

"Look, Blaine, I’ve got no problem with you as a person. You seem like a great guy. Kurt’s always had good things to say about you – more than good, really. You play good tennis and you don’t get into trouble, not any that reaches the headlines anyway."

"None at all, sir." He knows it’s rude to interrupt but it feel like something Kurt’s dad needs to know, that Blaine isn’t planning to lead his son astray. Burt raises an eyebrow and Blaine wonders what that means.

"God knows after his mom… well, let’s just say Kurt has the tendency to be all work and no play if we let him and I know as well as anyone that ain’t healthy. But there’s a time and a place for _that_ and I’m damn sure this isn’t it."

"Mr. Hummel, sir, I– I don’t think you quite understand what’s going on here, because..."

Burt just cuts him off: "–and the thing that worries me is that Kurt’s like his mom: he’s all heart and all emotion and he’s breakable. He’s strong, don’t get me wrong – strongest kid I know, matter of fact – but he’s breakable too and once he lets you in you have the power to do that. To break him."

"Mr. Hummel, I would never." Blaine feels about 15 years old right now.

"It’s obvious to me that whatever this is for you… actually I can _imagine_ what it is for you, kid, because word gets around in my game – I know about Smythe, I know about the others. I also know you’re not alone, that it can be a lonely job and you kids like to have a little bit of extracurricular fun. I don’t give enough of a damn about what you all get up to to judge you, but here’s the problem: I do care about my kid. I cannot, _will not_ let you break him, Anderson. I will not let you play around with him and risk you destroying what could be the tournament of his career."

"Sir..." Blaine doesn’t know what to say. Is this guy being _serious_ right now? Is he trying to say Blaine has some kind of reputation as some kind of _playboy_ because yeah sure, he had that fling with Sebastian and yeah, there was that whole thing at the last Olympics... but God, everyone was doing it, not just him. He’s had the odd liaison at some of the bigger tournaments but it’s never been _meaningless_ and it’s hardly like Blaine keeps a count of his hook-ups like notches on his freaking bedpost. Burt Hummel has him all wrong. Besides, this with Kurt, it’s different from anything ever.

"I guess what I’m tryna say, kid, is back the hell off." He fixes Blaine with an actual real-life death stare, closes the door and leaves Blaine stood there, shaking. The words he’d been so close to saying die on his tongue.

_"I would never do anything to hurt Kurt. I think I’m falling in love with him."_

 


	4. Chapter 4

"It probably seems like I’m trying to seduce you," Blaine says as he grabs Kurt by the hand and tugs him into the hotel room, kicking it deftly closed behind them and fixing Kurt with a lopsided grin. "–but I swear I’m not. This is my darling brother’s idea of a joke. At least, I hope it’s a joke."

Kurt wonders if the way Blaine babbles when he’s nervous will ever be any less adorable than it is right now. He hopes not. The way he talks too fast and gesticulates with his hands, the way those honey colored eyes flick to Kurt’s and away again as though he’s just waiting to be cut short and laughed at – it makes Kurt’s heart swoop. Almost as much as the feel of Blaine’s hand in his.

"I don’t know what you’re talking about," he says, following Blaine around the small corner that leads to the main area of the room. "Also, maybe I’d like to be seduced. Perhaps I am seducible."

Then he stops because something has happened to Blaine’s room, or at least he supposes it has; he can’t be sure as this is the first time he’s actually been _in_ Blaine’s room, but he’s pretty sure that there aren’t usually bouquets of flowers on every surface, or bottles of champagne cooling in a corner, or chocolates and strawberries artfully arranged on a platter, or _oh my god_ rose petals on the bed. He grins – it kind of does look like the seduction scene from a bad chick flick, it’s _incredibly_ tacky – but still it makes his chest flutter a little bit to think that he kind of has someone now, someone to deny making over the top gestures for him. It might seem like an odd thing to get worked up over, still Kurt can’t help the smile. Blaine is watching him carefully, eyebrows raised right up past his hairline.

"You were saying...?" he drawls, poking at a strawberry, "–about being seducible. Are you feeling seduced right now, Kurt? Am I seductive? Have my brother’s plans of seduction paid off?"’

"I’m feeling wow’ed," Kurt says, blinking. "You could probably say that."

"He’s such a douche," Blaine mutters with a dry laugh. "I swear, when I called you and said, ‘ _Hey Kurt, you should come on over since we both have a free night,’_ I was _honestly_ thinking we could just snuggle up and watch a movie on Pay Per View or whatever they call it here... you know, just totally laid back and normal and no pressure. But then I got held up by Wes – who I _swear_ is like the tennis police and needs a minute by minute breakdown of every second of my Goddamn day – so I only got here like five minutes ago. Cooper – and it _is_ him, I know it is – has obviously arranged all this and fuck knows why, because I didn’t even tell him you were coming over. So it actually looks like I’ve invited you to some trashy love nest and I plan to feed you strawberries and champagne and have my wicked way with you and..."

"Blaine."

"What?"

Kurt’s already learnt that Blaine’s like an express train when he gets talking and that actually, the only surefire way to stop him is to put his mouth to better use. So he does. It takes Blaine a second to respond when Kurt’s lips first find his, his hands fluttering for a second at his sides before finding Kurt’s hips and gripping. Kurt just thinks that’s so hot, the way Blaine holds onto him as though he’s scared he’ll disappear. They pull apart after a second and Kurt grins, feeling emboldened by the kiss and by Blaine. He’s never thought of himself as much of a flirt but Blaine’s looking up at him from beneath those long fucking eyelashes – he makes Kurt feel like he could do anything, say anything and it would be okay.

"I happen to like strawberries and champagne."

There’s a pause and it feels like the longest one of his life while Blaine just looks at him, expression unreadable. Then he steps forward and pulls Kurt to him almost roughly, his mouth capturing Kurt’s as he opens it in an ‘o’ of surprise. He’s kissing Kurt, mouth hungry and desperate and probing, his teeth biting down hard on Kurt’s lips almost as hard as Kurt tugs back on Blaine’s lower lip so that when Kurt tastes blood, bitter and coppery in his mouth, he’s unsure whether it’s Blaine’s or his own.

Blaine’s breath is warm and delicious against his skin as they collapse as one onto his bed. _Fuck,_ he thinks, _it was_ such _a good idea of Blaine’s to suggest they come here_.  They never break contact even for a second as they lick and touch and taste and discover, then Blaine’s pressing down and Kurt can feel him hard against his hip – he moans brokenly into Blaine’s mouth as he lifts his hips, desperate for some friction of his own. It gets hungrier somehow and Kurt hadn’t thought it was possible but suddenly there’s no finesse, just clashing teeth and fingertips pressing hard where they touch. Blaine rocks above him faster and harder and so fucking perfect, these are $400 jeans and Kurt can’t even find it in himself to care. He doesn’t know who comes first – supposes, as Blaine pants heavily into the damp skin of his neck, that it’s all irrelevant, really. When Blaine finally pulls away and looks down at him, his dark eyes flash with something Kurt’s never seen before, not in Blaine, not in anyone, _certainly_ not directed at him. He knows that something has changed, knows that same something is never going to be the same again.

When he finally opens his eyes again, Blaine has lifted himself off and away and is lying next to him on the bed, propped up on one arm and smiling down at him with something akin to wonder in his eyes.

"Hey," he murmurs, leaning in to ghost a kiss across Kurt’s lips. Kurt just laughs; Blaine has a rose petal caught in his curls, how is this even happening? He reaches up to remove it, letting it flutter back down onto the sheets beside them, returning Blaine’s smile. He hopes things aren’t about to get weird because that was totally unscheduled and Kurt believes that Blaine didn’t invite him over so they could both come in their pants, but now they’ve done it they can’t go back.

"I’m really sticky," he says wrinkling up his nose. Now he’s fully come back to himself it’s the only thing he’s really aware of and it’s kind of awful.

"You can use the bathroom," Blaine offers, pointing towards the door at the far side of the room. "And I’ll grab you some pants or something." They really hadn’t thought this through at all because there is no way Blaine’s pants are going to fit Kurt and somehow he has to get all the way back across London in them later. This is a nightmare. Unless.

"I could sponge them? If we’re going to stay here a while, I mean? I could sponge them and let them dry on the radiator and then put them back on, which is kind of gross still, but..."

"But better than being caught in the pants of a tiny man," Blaine agrees with a nod and a smile, reaching out to grab Kurt’s hand and squeeze it gently. Kurt squeezes back and heads for the bathroom.

It’s about another 20 minutes before they’re both cleaned off; Blaine opted for a full shower and looks unfairly adorable in dark blue jeans and a white t-shirt with his hair damp and tousled.

"I like you in my clothes," Blaine says conversationally as he surveys Kurt, who sits cross-legged on the bed in worn gray jogging pants and a Dalton t-shirt. He’s taken off his whole outfit from earlier because sitting in just his button-down would be more ridiculous than even this, and this is pretty ridiculous. "It’s kind of hot." He crawls across the bed, takes Kurt’s face in his hands and plants a noisy kiss square on Kurt’s lips.

"So,” he says. “That happened."

"Mmmhmm." Kurt nods, because yes, it totally did. So far Blaine doesn’t seem to be running for the hills, which is promising.

"And I swear, it wasn’t meant to."

Kurt wills the part of him that’s considering freaking out to shut the hell up and listen.

"No, that came out wrong. What I mean is, I honestly didn’t _plan_ for this to happen like this or at all... I don’t know what your dad’s told you, Kurt, but this, us, it means something to me."

"My dad hasn’t said anything." It makes him feel a little uneasy. What does Blaine think his dad might have said?

"Oh." Blaine wrinkles up his nose at that and then shrugs his shoulders. "Well, I guess I’m all in. Going off our recent chat, I don’t think I’d be wrong saying your dad has a less than stellar opinion of me."

"A less than stellar opinion based on what?"

"Based on..." Blaine pauses as though weighing up his words. "Look, Kurt, we’re both adults, so let’s just be straight with each other. I’m no blushing virgin, you know that. I already told you about Sebastian and, well, let’s just say he’s not the only guy on the tennis circuit I’ve hooked up with."

Kurt doesn’t reply, presses his lips together in a thin line. He knows Blaine’s in his thirties, that he’s been around a while, that there will have been _others_ before him, but still, it doesn’t make it fun to hear. That phrase, _hook-up_ , it’s so un-Blainelike, it just makes everything they’ve done a little less certain. It all makes Kurt feel utterly naive, but then Blaine’s lacing their fingers together and he just looks so damn earnest.

"Kurt, I may have made some questionable choices and there may be things in my romantic history that I don’t count amongst my proudest moments, but I am a good guy. Jesus, deep down I am _that_ guy who’s just been looking for romance in all the wrong places and I cared about every person I was with – which probably makes it sound like a higher number than it is – but this with you feels special, you know? You’re special, Kurt, and I want this to be something. I don’t want some hook-up or some fling that lasts the duration of the tournament and then sees us going our separate ways and maybe wanting more, maybe not, but not getting it either way. I want to be with you. I want this to be _real_."

It’s one of those moments that you don’t let yourself dream about. Kurt’s murmuring _boyfriends_ before he’s even realized he’s thinking it, and Blaine nods his head enthusiastically – _yes, boyfriends, yes –_ and Kurt feels a little seasick. It’s not that he doesn’t want this with Blaine, and it’s not that his confessions have scared him off – Kurt’s hardly untouched himself although he doesn’t have the _experience_ Blaine seems to – it’s that maybe he wants it too much. Things like this, perfect things, don’t just fall into Kurt Hummel’s lap like this and as overdramatic as it sounds, it seems like often stuff comes with a price; the right hand gives as the left takes. When they were just hanging out, stealing kisses and holding hands and having zero expectations, it all felt considerably less _petrifying_. Now, moving from casual to oh-so-very not, it feels like there’s so much more room for error: Kurt really doesn’t want to fuck this up.

"You’re thinking really loud," Blaine says, peering at him as though somewhere in the freckles on Kurt’s nose he’ll find the key to his thoughts. "Am I jumping the gun, do you not want?"

"No. I mean yes. I... of course I _want_ Blaine, have you seen yourself lately? Or indeed ever." Blaine laughs at that and Kurt smiles a little, emboldened. "It’s just, it’s all so fast and I have all these _feelings_ that I don’t quite know what to do with. You’re saying all these things and I thought you wanted something casual – I am so, so glad you don’t but at the same time I am so scared of this ending with my heart in a gutter."

"So so not casual," Blaine says, punctuating each word with a kiss. "And I swear I will _never_ let any part of you, least of all your heart, anywhere near a gutter. I get that you’re scared, Kurt, I’m a little scared myself but I am not going let fear – yours _or_ mine – force us to miss what could be the biggest and best opportunity of our lives. Do you understand me?"

And all Kurt can do is laugh and nod and be kissed.

 

**: :**

 

Blaine spends much of his life wishing if not that his older brother didn’t exist, then at least that he was less present. He’ll be the first to tell anybody that he has issues with Cooper and with his family as a whole probably: Blaine’s the son of an extremely successful businessman, the brother of the limelight-stealing Cooper, the only grandson who’s never going to bring home a pretty _wife._ He’d grown up struggling to find his place.  

His brother was the blue-eyed boy, sharp and witty and gorgeous and _first-born_ , with just enough talent to make it. Cooper had pretty girlfriends and good grades and led the Dalton Academy Warblers, the show choir of the prestigious boarding school their father and grandfather before them had attended. Then he’d found fame, starting off with cheesy commercials, grabbing bit parts in not-completely-terrible films before landing the lead role in one of those television dramas that Blaine can’t quite bring himself to watch but that the rest of the world seems to devour. He’s a household name more so than Blaine will ever be and he has the _world_ eating out of the palm of his hand because Cooper? Cooper shines brighter than the sun, making up in charisma what he might sometimes lack in ability. Since the day he was born he was everything the Andersons ever wanted in a child.

And then there was Blaine.

Most parents would describe him as a happy accident, wanting to make sure he knew that despite the lack of planning surrounding his birth he was loved all the same.  

Blaine’s mother just called him a mistake.

Not maliciously – she _loved_ him, Blaine knew that, never had cause to doubt it, but he was a _mistake_ all the same, coming along when Cooper was almost nine and his parents were preparing to start to live their lives again in the way you can’t when your child can’t tie his own shoelaces. He’d thrown all their plans into disarray and despite never wanting for anything, despite being loved, the word still stung each and every time; he couldn’t help wondering if his parents would take him back given the chance. After all, wasn’t that what people did with mistakes?

Blaine had good clothes and the best toys and a nanny who adored him. He had a father who would help him with his homework; a mother who would sweep into his bedroom to press a kiss to his forehead, smelling of flowers and looking like a _princess_ ; and an older brother who would torture him in the way only older brothers can. Still, he never really felt _at home_ at home.

For a long time the only place Blaine Anderson felt at home was on a tennis court. With a racket in one hand and a bright yellow ball bouncing on the grass and into the other hand, he felt like maybe things weren't that bad. All of the things that would have mattered somehow didn't because throughout it all he had tennis and Blaine didn't care if it made him a cliché – tennis had saved his life, probably. Somehow it’s like when he’s playing tennis he can be himself, he isn’t Cooper Anderson’s brother, he isn’t fighting to compare and never quite managing it. He isn’t being shot down. He’s doing what he’s good at and he’s doing it for him. It makes it easier somehow, having a career of his own, being a success on his own merit, and over years of Coop living it up in LA and Blaine running in Central Park they’ve become almost close, mostly because it’s easier to tune Cooper out over the phone than it is face to face.

Blaine loves his brother, he just wishes his brother wasn’t quite so over the top and perhaps a little less _in London_ right now because he’s just established himself as the _boyfriend_ of an extremely hot, utterly adorable guy, really wants to stay right here on this Super King size bed and snuggle. However, now the front desk is calling and telling him Cooper is in the lobby, asking if Blaine has perhaps forgotten their dinner plans?

No he has not, he tells the poor receptionist, because they don’t _have_ dinner plans. They don’t have dinner plans because Blaine had plans with _Kurt_ ( _“It’s fine,”_ he can hear Coop saying in the background, _“tell him to bring the eyecandy."_ ) and God, his brother is the single most annoying being on the planet.

"I’m just going to text him and tell him to fuck off," Blaine says, shaking his head and shooting Kurt an apologetic glance, but Kurt’s sitting up, placing a cool hand on Blaine’s forearm.

"Wait. I’d totally forgotten. I’ve been so wrapped up in this–” He gestures to the space between them. "Blaine. Your brother is Cooper Anderson."

Blaine nods. _Yes, he damn well is,_ and ain’t that a blessing and a curse without the blessing part? But Kurt’s eyes have gone a little dreamy.

"Blaine. Your brother is _Cooper Anderson_.” Kurt says again. “Of course we have to have dinner with him."

"I thought you had posters of _me_ on your wall." But he’s teasing. Kurt has made it abundantly clear where his interests lie in that department and to be honest, people reacting like this to Blaine’s brother, it’s kind of par for the course: Cooper is an attractive man, according to several online polls and the odd magazine spread.

"I did," Kurt says, leaning in for another kiss. "Which is why we need to go for dinner. Little old me, dining with The Anderson Brothers” – that photoshoot was the biggest mistake Blaine ever made, eurgh – “It’s like a dream come true, you’re both so _beautiful_."

Blaine’s boyfriend is swooning.

Blaine’s boyfriend is also practically skipping across the room to check if his jeans are finally dry, and he has an ass that makes it impossible for Blaine to say no. Dinner with Coop it is, then.

 

**: :**

 

Cooper likes to think of himself as charismatic. Blaine’s not so sure it’s an entirely accurate description, yet as he and Kurt walk into the hotel restaurant, he’s not even a little surprised to see his brother writing on the chest of some doe-eyed girl. In Sharpie. The girl’s giggling, one hand pressed to her breast, just shy of where Blaine can make out Cooper’s signature even from this distance. Next to him Kurt lets out a dreamy sigh.

"He’s like a real-life Disney Prince. That _jaw."_

Blaine snorts. "Don’t let him hear you say that. Jesus, we’ll never hear the end of it."  

Then Cooper’s turned around and his smile changes; his fame face has gone and his grin is so wide and genuine like he’s genuinely pleased to see them. Blaine feels his own smile start despite himself.

"Blainey!" Cooper crosses the room in three strides, pulling Blaine into a bone-crushing hug. His "don’t _call_ me that” is lost in a faceful of crisp shirt and too much cologne.

"It’s good to see you, little brother."

  
Blaine rolls his eyes at Cooper’s raised tone, the way he looks around the room as he speaks as though gauging the reactions of the other diners. Blaine can’t not notice that the majority of them are watching on in interest.

"Coop. You saw me _yesterday._ "

"And this must be Kurt." Fame face is back and Kurt is fixed with Cooper’s full-wattage smile. Blaine would swear his teeth are actually twinkling; he bets he’s had some dental work done. There is no way Cooper just looks like that, life isn’t that unfair. Kurt flushes and nods his head, biting down on his lower lip as Cooper shakes his hand. Blaine has a sudden flashback to a few days ago at the training ground – God, Kurt had been adorable that day and he’s adorable now.

"It’s really good to meet you, I really like your work."

And significantly less tongue-tied than he’d been the day he met Blaine, it’s weirdly satisfying to note.

"Of course you do," Cooper agrees. "The show’s doing really well. Some of the writing is a little below par, of course, but I make it work. It’s all about the actor, not the material, after all. And what do you do?"

"Kurt plays _tennis,_ Cooper,” Blaine reminds him, shooting Kurt an apologetic smile. Kurt just shrugs, slips into his seat and nods a little dazedly at the waiter offering him water.

"Of course. Like Blaine. Well, we all find our fame where we can, I suppose. I think I caught you on television a while ago, actually. Your interview was quite interesting. I remember thinking you could do with working on your voice a little, like Blaine. But the tone you apply to your voice is so unusual, it begs people to listen; makes you really stand out, that’s very cleverly done."

Blaine wants to die.

"just a friendly word of advice Kurt: you ought to work on how you sit: don’t hold yourself so stiffly, and use your hands more; people will never appreciate how much you _mean_ what you’re _saying_ if you don’t talk with your hands. And your right side really isn’t your best. Just so you know.”

Blaine wants Cooper to die or at least disappear. He can’t actually believe him sometimes, like with the fake Italian accent as he places his order which makes the pretty young waitress turn beetroot red, or the way he insists on seeing the wine list because he played a guy that worked at a winery once (If he played a surgeon would he think he was qualified to perform brain surgery? Probably.). He’s so arrogant and so _patronizing_ and it makes Blaine’s food stick in his throat.

"I played a sportsman in a movie once," he’s saying to Kurt now, Kurt still hanging on his every word which would be kind of adorable if it weren’t Cooper’s words. "–and trust me, it really isn’t as hard as it seems. Don’t listen to Blaine, he’s always made everything into a drama."

"Oh hey, kettle," Blaine interjects, "my name’s pot. _You’re black._ And if you’re done giving tips to Kurt while you barely know one end of a tennis racket from the other, I guess I should probably say thanks for that monstrosity you so kindly arranged in my hotel room?" Blaine arches an eyebrow at Cooper as Kurt huffs out a laugh beside him.  Cooper rolls his eyes, his expression one of disbelief.

" _Blaine_ ," he whispers, or at least Blaine thinks it’s supposed to be a whisper – Coop was never all that good at being inconspicuous. "You’re not supposed to thank me _in front of him._ I mean, obviously you’re welcome, but there’s no way you’ll be able to keep him around if he thinks all the romance in your relationship comes from your _brother."_

Kurt makes a weird strangled noise beside him like he’s choking on a laugh and Blaine feels his lips twitch in a smile. "Trust me," he fake-whispers back, "the only reason he’s sitting here now is because I’ve convinced him that display of tackiness you’re calling romance had sweet F.A. to do with me."

Cooper smiles indulgently and pats the back of Blaine’s hand as he leans in towards Kurt slightly and winks. "He needs all the help he can get, I know,” he says, “but trust me, his heart is in the right place. Even if he needs a bit of a help in expressing himself, the sentiment is all Blaine."

"Oh I don’t know." Kurt squeezes Blaine’s thigh beneath the table. "I think he does ok."

 

Later, just when Blaine thinks he’s had more of his brother than he can generally deal with in a year and he’s thinking he’d like to go and lie quietly in a dark, silent room with just _Kurt_ , a young girl, late teens maybe, heads to their table. Her face is flushed and her hands curl and uncurl by her sides as she looks at them. Blaine wants to help her out, tell her Coop really isn’t all that and that in asking for his autograph all she is doing is feeding his ego – he won’t even remember her face in an hour. But she’s not looking at Cooper, she’s looking at Kurt and at Blaine.

"You’re Blaine Anderson? And Kurt Hummel? I’m so sorry to disturb you, it’s just, I love tennis – I have Centre Court tickets for tomorrow actually – and you guys are my favorites. I’m really rooting for you both and I wondered if I could get a picture?"

Kurt’s nodding, smiling, asking her politely what she’s called (Jenna) and how far she’s travelled (from Manchester, about three hours by train) and Blaine risks a look at Cooper, who miraculously doesn’t look a bit put out at being ignored.

"Hey Jenna." Cooper grins, holding out a hand for the girls cell phone, and making a gesture with his hands to suggest they squeeze closer together. "Squeeze yourself between the boys and I’ll take the photo. That’s right. Altogether now, say ‘ _Coop_.’"

He snaps a couple of shots and then reaches in his pocket and pulls out his Sharpie.

"Bet you’ve been carrying your tickets ‘round with you to keep them safe, right?" he asks with a wink. She blushes and nods. "Well, they can’t sign your actual tickets, but don’t they come in some kind of wallet? You can put your names on that, right boys?"

He chucks the Sharpie across the table to Blaine who catches it one-handed as Jenna rushes back to grab her bag. "I often find ‘ _Keep on dreaming… - Cooper Anderson’_ works well,” he says. Blaine is just gobsmacked, because what is this? Who is this guy taking photos and not trying to get in on them, lending Blaine his pen, sitting back in his chair and studying his phone as Blaine and Kurt sign their names and make a couple more minutes polite conversation – what has he done with Blaine’s limelight-greedy brother? He’s studying this man quizzically when he feels a toe nudge his foot beneath the table and sees Cooper’s mouth curve up in a smile.

"I know I’m extremely handsome, little brother, but no amount of staring at my face is going to transfer the Anderson good looks to you.” But it doesn’t feel like a proper jab, like a comparison, like another way to belittle him. Suddenly Blaine’s reminded of dressing up for Halloween as kids, how whatever hero Coop dressed as, he always wanted Blaine as his sidekick; of birthdays and how even on his birthday Cooper always let Blaine choose breakfast. He’s reminded of the day after Sadie Hawkins, when Cooper hadn’t known what to say but had bought Blaine a new tennis racket and taken three weeks vacation time; of how he always calls Blaine after every important game and sure, he usually likes to dissect his little brother’s performance and tell him exactly how he should have played. Maybe Blaine’s been looking at it wrong because it might be as annoying as hell but Coop always has the details just right and that means he makes the time to watch every single one of Blaine’s televised games no matter the time difference.

He nudges him back with his own foot and grins. "I’m really glad you came, Coop."

 


	5. Chapter 5

Kurt is tired, bone tired from the tips of his fingers to the tips of his toes. His ankle, an old injury that flares up every now and then (and had even stopped him entering a grand slam for twelve months) is aching. It’s a worry, but one that he can’t afford to focus on because this is Wimbledon and this could be his big chance. He doesn’t mention the pain to his dad, shrugs off the circles beneath his eyes and sets his jaw when Holly collars him in the kitchen the night before the match that could get him a quarterfinal spot. Her arms are folded across her chest and her gaze is piercing.

"Are you sick?"

"What?" Kurt’s distracted, minding the milk warming gently on the stove and the cell phone in his hand as he waits for a text from Blaine to come through. They just parted ways an hour ago but already he misses him so hard it’s like a physical manifestation in his chest: this need to always be where Blaine is.

"No. No, I’m just....tired."

It’s the truth but he knows she won’t buy it; Holly knows him better than that, knows how much value Kurt puts in a good night’s sleep and a regular skin care regime; knows that especially during a tournament, he insists on getting as much practice as he can possibly squeeze in and a minimum of ten hours of sleep a night. It’s pretty obvious he hasn’t been getting either. It’s no wonder she thinks he’s sick. Maybe he is, just _love_ sick. Lately sleep doesn’t seem as important as lying in the dark with his cell pressed to his ear, whispering with Blaine in the darkness until the small hours. Circuit training, game training, they don’t seem to matter as much as squeezing in coffee with Blaine, or going for a slower run than either of them usually would so they can talk as they go. Sometimes they’ll meet with the intention of hitting a ball back and forth but instead wind up sitting side by side on the grass of the training court, pressed thigh to thigh and stealing kisses that taste of coffee and mint and promise. Nothing seems to matter as much as Blaine anymore and while Kurt certainly hasn’t lost his ambition his want is a little hazier now, his vision clouded by a curly-haired boy who smiles with his eyes and who looks like the future Kurt never dared dream of.

"Bullshit." Holly rests her palms on the kitchen’s work surface and hikes herself up to sit, legs swinging back and forth, heels kicking rhythmically against the wooden cupboard door. "Spill."

"There’s nothing to..." God, why is he even dragging this out. This is Holly Holiday, she could get blood from a _stone_. "There’s a guy."

"Anderson."

"Blaine," Kurt agrees, amends, and his name tastes like candy on Kurt’s tongue. Holly waggles her eyebrows and Kurt can’t not laugh. Suddenly he’s grateful for Holly because Rachel is totally focused on the trophy right now; even if Kurt could drag her away from the tennis courts for a single second and get her to listen to anything unrelated to how amazing she is, he knows that the second he mentioned he was giving even a passing thought to anything that wasn’t "the beautiful game” she’d go all manic and screechy on him. He feels sorry for Finn because Rachel is so focused, his brother’s definitely not getting any whatsoever right now. Well, he doesn’t want to murder his best friend right on the cusp of her big break, and Holly might act like she’s tough and self-serving but Kurt likes to think he knows better – and Jesus, he needs to talk to someone because his head has felt like like it might explode lately.

"You can’t tell my dad," he says sternly, pointing at her with his wooden spoon. She shakes her head.

"My lips are sealed. As tight as Rachel Berry’s legs.” Holly mimes zipping and locking her mouth, hands the invisible key to Kurt who takes it and then wonders what the hell he’s even doing right now.

He pokes her leg. "Don’t be mean."

Holly raises an eyebrow and gestures at him to speak, lips still pressed tightly together.

"Right. Okay. Right."

"Don’t tell me–" Holly cuts him off before he’s even formed a sentence, her promise to keep quiet not even lasting thirty seconds. "You look like you’re on another planet – and don’t look at me like that, cupcake, have you seen yourself lately? _You_ have forgotten the sole purpose of us being in this freezing cold country that hasn’t even _heard_ of Taco Bell and have instead been getting hot and dirty with Blaine Anderson. Put it there." She holds up a hand. "That boy is _hot_."

Kurt smacks their palms together reflexively before pulling back and shaking his head. "What? No. No we haven’t– he hasn’t, I haven’t... No." He’s telling the truth, _technically_ , because Kurt is a romantic and coming in jeans – regardless of their price tag – does not count. He hasn’t even seen Blaine naked, which is a pity because he bets Blaine looks spectacular naked.

And Holly is still talking.

"Why the hell _not?_ I’ve seen you guys together – take it from someone who knows, Kurt, you could totally tap that."

Kurt sighs, presses a palm to his forehead. It might have been easier to talk to Rachel after all.

"You’ve fallen for him, haven’t you?"

It says a lot about his coach, Kurt thinks, that she’ll discuss his sleeping with Blaine like they’re talking about the weather, but she makes the suggestion that there might be feelings involved sound like the scandal of the century.

"Oh boy," she croons, leaning back and arching her back cat-like as Kurt continues to stir his milk. "Are we in trouble."

"I don’t see why."

"Because, darling boy, love is... well, let’s just say there’s a reason I’m deathly allergic to commitment – and you are obviously the sensitive type, meaning love, love is going to take you by the hand and spin you round so fast you can’t remember your name. If you’re not careful you’re going to be too busy making heart eyes at Blaine to notice someone stealing that trophy from right under your nose, and it’s my job to make sure that doesn’t happen."

"Wow," Kurt says, because really. Sometimes, like now, Holly is so freaking astute that it knocks him sideways; he’s barely said a word and she’s nailed it anyway. That is exactly how he feels, like Blaine has swept him off his feet so fast it’s left him dizzy, the way you feel when you get off a rollercoaster: totally disoriented and buzzing with adrenaline. Sometimes, like now, he just wants to hug her hard. Kurt is a romantic, a hopeless one at that: he started planning his wedding at five years old, when his parents had dressed him in a suit and taken him the wedding of a guy from the garage. Kurt had seen the dresses and the flowers and the way the bride and groom had looked at each other – and sure, his tastes might have changed in the last 20 years or so but one thing has remained the same: Kurt has always dreamed of finding that one person he would love like that, who would love him in return, who he could imagine growing old with. He wants it all: the hearts; the flowers; the lazy Sunday morning cuddles and the rushed late-for-work-and-flying-out-the-door kisses; the petty fights and the intense make-ups; the shared domestic spaces; the hand-holding; the glances; the "I love you”s; the ‘til death do us part.

Kurt wants it all, always has, and he feels bad for Holly, who is deathly allergic to commitment, always running away from love and into the arms of another unsuitable man who’s gone before the sun comes up. Kurt can’t say for sure but he feels like each one of those guys takes with him a piece of her soul. While she’s always bright smiles and infectious laughter, even flirting gently with Kurt’s father some days (Burt used to blush but now he just rolls his eyes), Kurt can’t help feel like deep down she must be desperately lonely.

"I think he might be special," he says, reaching for a second cup from the cupboard and pouring them both a hot milk.

"Not as special as this tournament."

 _Jesus_ , does everything in Kurt’s life have to be measured against tennis? He knows it’s a ridiculous thing to even cross his mind and it’s a lucky he didn’t say it out loud because the answer is yes, of course it does – this is Kurt’s career, his _future_ at stake.

"Yes," he says softly because he has to say it out loud, has to hope that Holly hears him. "As special as this tournament." _More_ , but he doesn’t voice that, says it to himself and holds it close. "God, Holly, I know that your job is to get me as close to that title as you can, but please don’t try and make me choose between tennis and lo– …him. Don’t make me…you."

She tenses visibly at that and Kurt wonders if it was a step too far but whatever. Holly might like to pretend she’s happy with a different man in every city, never keeping anyone around long enough to get under her skin, but Kurt remembers her fling with his and Rachel’s first coach, remembers the look on her face whenever they were together. He remembers the redness of her eyes when she’d broken it off and he’s seen how she reacts whenever she runs into the guy. Schue had been the one for Holly, Kurt’s sure of it, and the decision she’d made... he’s certain it still haunts her even now.

"That was complicated. You wouldn’t understand."

"I know you loved him. I know you let him go and I’m sure you had your reasons, but you can’t make them my reasons too. This, this with Blaine, it’s– I’m scared shitless by how good it all feels, actually."

Kurt laughs, eyes meeting Holly’s over the rim of his mug, and she snorts, stretching a leg to press a toe against his thigh.

"That’s love, baby, that’s love. And you’re right, actually: you should probably learn from my mistakes. If this thing with you and that pocket-sized sex god is more than just sex you should cling onto it as tightly as you can – don’t let him go and don’t listen to anyone that tries to tell you that you should. Just... love doesn’t pay the bills, Kurt, and you’re here to do a job. I wouldn’t be doing mine if I let you forget the reason we’re all here."

"I know."

"Get your rocks off; seduce him, _romance_ him if that’s what floats your boat, but remember you’re here for tennis and not for Blaine. If he’s what you think he is he’ll still be there when you score that championship point."

"Thank you. Really, Coach, thank you. And I’m sorry about Mr. Schue. I really am."

Holly smiles sadly and then shakes her head, as though forcing herself out of a funk.

"God. I wish we could go for tacos."

 

**: :**

 

It’s possibly the hardest game of tennis Kurt has ever played. He’s so tired and he knows it’s his own fault; he should have just gone to sleep last night after his chat with Holly – that was the whole _point_ of hot milk after all – but instead he’d curled up under the duvet and called Blaine and talked about everything and nothing, about England versus America, Mean Girls versus Clueless, about the latest issue of Vogue, about whether they’d manage to keep the Centre Court roof off for the entirety of his quarterfinal. It had been almost 3 am before he’d finally fallen asleep and now he’s two sets down and Kurt is so tired he can barely see straight. He’s making stupid mistakes, each one punctuated by a groan from the crowd that feels like a punch to the chest, doesn’t dare look over to where his dad sits with Holly and Finn and Rachel. He knows the man’s face will be painted with that expression of concern and disappointment and faith and it will just make things so much harder –   _tw_ o sets down, it’s as good as over.

  
They’ve stopped for new balls and he takes a long drink of his water, buries his face in his towel for a moment. He counts to ten before looking to his left, past where he knows his dad is sitting anxiously, waiting to make eye contact with his son, and looking to Blaine instead, Blaine who has his own match tomorrow and should be training but is here anyway. He knows there’s probably countless cameras trained on them both right now but can’t bring himself to care, he grabs Blaine’s gaze and he holds it, letting it ground him. Blaine’s expression is so earnest for a second before his mouth curves upward in the curve of a smile and he raises his hand, holding up three fingers and nodding his head. _Three sets left,_ he’s saying, _you can still do this._ Kurt exhales heavily; he’s not sure anymore and he’s so tired, not to mention he can probably count on one hand the number of players that have come back from two sets down to victory. Blaine curls his hand into a fist, thumbs up and eyebrows raised and then raises his three fingers again: _yes Kurt, yes you can._ Kurt nods his head, emboldened – he can, he can do this _for Blaine_ – and Blaine grins, touching his thumbs and forefingers together in the shape of a heart. Kurt lets out a laugh, he can’t help it; that gesture, Blaine Anderson’s fingers making a love-heart, will be played and replayed ad infinitum. Kurt doesn’t even care. The umpire is calling time and Kurt takes one last calming breath before he walks back to take his serve.

He ups the pressure, he has to – takes his tiredness and the dull ache in his ankle and he locks it away like he was trained to do years ago in meditation classes – and he draws on everything he has, throwing out his best serves, slicing his returns and chasing them to the net. There’s double fault after double fault in his favor and suddenly it’s not 2-6, 4-6 but 2-6, 4-6, 6-5 and Kurt thinks that maybe, just maybe he can turn this thing around. He’s so grateful they get five sets instead of the women’s three. Kurt closes into the net and improves his volleying position so that his opponent looks shell-shocked, like he’s under pressure that’s come from nowhere. Kurt takes the fourth set, only just – 7 games to 6 – and they’re in the fifth set. They’ve been playing for fucking hours and this is it, this is what decides whether one of Kurt’s dreams is over or not.

And so Kurt plays tennis.

He moves the ball around, crosscourt, down the line, through the center; he moves faster than he ever thought he could, he draws on the ooh’s and the aah’s of the crowd and he works them – he manages to return almost every passing shot. It’s hard and he’s flagging and despite Kurt’s best efforts his opponent isn’t letting up, not even for a second. There is absolutely no way anybody will ever say Kurt is walking this match; he kind of feels like the other guy deserves to win, he’s playing that well, but when it comes down to it Kurt wants it more than he thinks the other guy deserves it. Then it’s there: match point, and it’s his, the score’s 2-6, 4-6, 6-5, 7-6, 6-4 and the crowd is cheering. His dad, Holly, Rachel, and Finn are on their feet and Blaine is hugging himself. Kurt Hummel has an actual place in the quarterfinal.

He’s exhausted when he makes his way through to the media area to be interviewed, body thrumming, almost too exhausted to smile. Almost. It was a great game, he tells the interviewer, absolutely not an easy win – he hadn’t been sure until the last moment that it was his and his opponent played some stunning tennis. Yes, he’s thrilled, can’t wait to play his first final-round match and then it comes: _Is there something going on behind the scenes with you and Blaine Anderson?_ They probably should have talked about this, about how they’d handle things when their relationship came up with the press, and he has no idea how to handle it, no idea how Blaine will want to handle it, hasn’t even discussed the matter with his own PR. That’s probably the kind of fuck-up that will have Holly ripping him apart, especially because he can’t help the smile or the flush that spreads high on his cheeks. Pale skin definitely has its drawbacks. He shrugs his shoulders, offers the interviewer what he hopes is a coy smile. "Come on, Sue. I just won a game by the skin of my _teeth –_ if that’s not more interesting than who I may or may not be dating then I’m doing something wrong."

Everyone is in the lounge waiting for him when he’s showered and changed. He’s gone for post-match casual in gray jeans and a white long-sleeved tee, sporting a black scarf with a paisley print knotted carefully at his neck and his hair still slightly damp. He catches Blaine’s eye and smiles, feels a rush of satisfaction as Blaine looks him over and visibly swallows.

"Awesome game, kiddo." His dad pulls him into a bear hug and Holly is grinning, her arm slung around Finn’s waist holding him close. Kurt barely has time to process that Rachel is _allowing that to happen_ before the girl herself is pulling him out of his dad’s arms and into her own, reaching to fasten her arms around his neck and squealing. Kurt laughs, lifting her off her feet and spinning her around ‘til they’re both breathless and dizzy.

"This is why you’re my best gay,” she tells him, smile so wide it seems to stretch from ear to ear. "And coming from somebody with two gay dads that’s quite the accolade. You are the only person in the world even remotely close to being on my level and Kurt, you were so wonderful out there, the way you rallied. I’m so proud of you. Oh it’s going to be marvellous, both of us on that podium together next weekend. Championship winners. This is where it begins for us, just you see... we’ll be bigger than the Kennedys."

"I am too happy right now to even try and follow your thought processes," he tells her fondly, looking over at Blaine and jerking his head in a _get over here_ motion. "–but it’s only the quarterfinal, I haven’t won yet."

"You will," Rachel says firmly, squeezing his hand tightly as Blaine crosses the room, hovering just on the outside of the circle. Kurt flashes her a smile before slipping past her, ignoring the weight of his dad’s gaze and not allowing himself to wonder what was said to Blaine on the front stoop last night. He reaches for Blaine’s hand and tugs him gently away from the group, just out of earshot.

"You were incredible," Blaine breathes, lacing their fingers together properly and holding on. Kurt laughs, shakes his head.

"I wasn’t, not really. We both know I got through that by the skin of my teeth."

"But you _got through_ and that’s what matters. God Kurt, I almost didn’t breathe through that whole last set."

"I’m glad you did; I’d hate to have your death on my conscience when you have your own match tomorrow."

Blaine laughs at that, his eyes dancing, and Kurt just wants to take him by the hand and drag him away somewhere, anywhere they can be alone and Kurt can back him up against a wall and kiss the breath out of him. Instead there is so much still to do and his dad’s coughing behind him that they’re all waiting and Holly’s gesturing wildly at him to hurry it up. He smiles apologetically at Blaine, thumbing at the skin on the inside of his wrist.

"I’m sorry, she’ll self-combust if I don’t go talk to her right now. I’ll see you tomorrow maybe?"

Blaine nods, squeezing Kurt’s fingers gently and stepping slowly backwards, not breaking contact ‘til just the tips of their fingers are touching. "Tomorrow."

 

**: :**

 

"Hey, kid."

Blaine’s almost out of the grounds when he hears his name called. He turns around, feeling his heart sink to the soles of his sneakers as Burt Hummel strides towards him, baseball cap still planted firmly atop his head and face set in what could not, in any world, be described as a smile. Blaine doesn’t mind admitting that he is petrified of Kurt’s dad, which is more of a worry now that Blaine can’t see anybody around to save him.

"Mr. Hummel." He tries to straighten up a little and make himself appear a little taller as Burt comes to a stop in front of him. It doesn’t work but it makes him feel better, marginally.

"We need to talk, you and me." _And that doesn’t bode well, does it_? Blaine thinks, _‘We need to talk about something wonderful,’ said nobody ever_. He tries for a smile which probably comes across as more of a grimace and nods his head. He can do this. He is Blaine Anderson, Dalton Alumnus and world famous tennis star. He can do this.

"You played your last match well. I saw the last few games."

"You did?" Blaine is uneasy; somehow it doesn’t feel quite right that Burt’s pulled him aside now to congratulate him on his tennis. Burt might be an unlikely panther but Blaine is still waiting for him to pounce.

"They’re saying it’s the best you’ve played in a while. I saw the interviews too."

"Thanks. Thank you. I don’t know how true that is, sir, but if it is... well I guess it’s that I have something to play for now."

Kurt. He means Kurt. Kurt is his reason, is making everything make sense again but also in ways it never did before. Blaine wants to make Kurt proud, wants Kurt to see the very best Blaine can be and to love him for it because Blaine thinks he might love Kurt already. _God_ , that sounds crazy to his own ears but there it is. It’s there in the way his stomach flips over at the sound of Kurt’s voice, the way his laugh makes Blaine laugh in return, the way Kurt’s hand is in his makes his heart race, the way that sometimes (most times) when Kurt kisses him Blaine actually has to remind himself to breathe. He hopes they don’t play each other because he doesn’t think he can be the person Kurt has to fight for the thing Blaine knows Kurt wants more than anything else.Blaine wants for Kurt to win this tournament so much more than he wants it for himself.

So Burt Hummel is currently talking to him and Blaine is too busy thinking about how much he loves his son to pay any real attention. Is this going to be the story of how he dies? The last time he spoke to Kurt’s dad he told Blaine in no uncertain terms to back off and he kind of hasn’t. At all.

"You care about Kurt," Burt is saying and Blaine nods his head vigorously because he does, oh he really does and it’s so important that Burt knows that. "I can see you do and I appreciate it. But here’s the thing, Blaine: you’re going about it all wrong.”

"I don’t understand."

"No. Nah, I guess you don’t. I thought I’d made myself clear when we had our little chat but seems I was wrong. Let me spell it out for you then. Kurt, he’s worked hard to get here, so hard. He’s come through so much and– God, I don’t think you realize quite what this means to him."

"I do, sir, I..."

Burt holds up a hand and Blaine swallows his protestations back down.

"No, you don’t. Kurt is an incredible tennis player, easily the best guy here this year – and that’s not parental bias, that’s fact – and while you’ve pulled this top tier tennis from nowhere, Kurt… he’s _losing it_. He won his game today by luck rather than good management and it’s not enough, it’s not enough for _Kurt_. All this with you, it’s all fine now, but when he misses his big chance because he’s too busy following you ‘round with hearts in his eyes, it won’t be so fine. He’ll resent you, you’ll resent yourself, and it will all be a big old mess that I’ll have to put back together and you know what? I’m not sure I can."

Blaine feels sick to his stomach, like he could actually vomit on Burt’s worn old Nikes.

"What are you saying?" he asks softly, even though he knows.

Burt presses his lips together in a thin line. "I’m saying Kurt’s screwing up his game because of you. Like I already said to you once – and I hate repeating myself – if you care about him half as much as you’re reckoning you do, then you’ll back off."

Blaine wants to protest, to say, _‘But you’ve got it all wrong_.’ Wants to say, _‘Don’t you understand? I am crazy in love with your son_. But just like every other time he’s spoken with this man so far the words won’t come. Burt doesn’t give him chance to speak anyway, just fixes him with a glare, turns on his heel and walks away. Blaine falls back against the wall, closing his eyes and swearing softly under his breath.

This was not supposed to happen.

 

Blaine’s laid awake nights thinking about Kurt, about how all this might pan out, and this did not feature in his dreams of happily ever after. But. Burt knows his son better than anybody, better than Blaine could ever hope to in such a short time and if Blaine is throwing Kurt off his game, if Blaine is unwittingly forcing him to throw away his _dreams,_ Blaine can’t let that happen. Burt obviously wants him to end it but how can Blaine do that when every time Kurt touches him he feels like he’s come home? He takes a deep breath and pulls his jacket closer around him, pushes his palms off the wall and stands upright. He has to see Kurt, kiss Kurt, – dare he think it – _fuck_ Kurt. Has to make sure Kurt knows exactly how he feels and that he can’t, _won’t_ lose him.

Later, when Blaine rings the bell and rolls forwards onto the balls of his feet and back again, his heart is in his throat – what if Kurt’s not okay with him just turning up like this out of the blue? Except Blaine kind of can’t _not_ turn up. It’s Holly that answers the door and he is so so endlessly glad it’s not Burt. She grins at him, hair falling in her face and eyes dancing.

"You don’t have to tell me why you’re here. He’s in his room." A pause, a laugh. "Oh God, you two are the cutest; you don’t even know which room that is. Top of the stairs, second door on the left. Burt’s out."

She winks and tugs him over the threshold. Blaine takes a deep breath and hopes with every fiber of his being that Kurt hasn’t had the same pep talk from his dad that Blaine has had and that he won’t slam the door in Blaine’s face.

He doesn’t. He just stares.

 

**: :**

 

Kurt can’t quite believe that this is happening. It’s his semifinal tomorrow – he needs to rest, to recharge his tired batteries, to lie in the silence of a dark room and focus. When he’d heard that _knocking_ on the door, he’d sworn under his breath and pulled it open, ready to tear a strip off the person on the other side. Not even for a second had he imagined that the person on the other side would be Blaine and all he can do is stare. _What is he doing here?_ They’re not supposed to see each other again ‘til tomorrow night, after the tennis. Kurt played abysmally today and he really needs to regroup; it’s not fair for Blaine to turn up like this, unshaven and loose-haired and unfairly gorgeous at Kurt’s bedroom door. All the same, Kurt has never ever been so pleased to see anybody in his life.

And then he panics because he just got out of the shower like ten minutes ago and his hair is a mess and worse than that he’s only wearing boxers. He might as well be naked in front of Blaine who is totally fully clothed. _How the fuck is this my life?_

"What are you doing here?" he says finally, because Blaine isn’t speaking and they’re just kind of standing looking at each other and it’s weird.

"I wanted to see you."

"So turn on your TV," he sasses even as he’s tugging Blaine into the room and pushing the door closed behind him.

"No." Blaine shakes his head. "I wanted to see _you."_

Blaine is looking at him nervously, longingly, worrying his bottom lip with his teeth. It makes something in Kurt’s stomach clench. There’s something in his eyes – fear, doubt, worry? Kurt doesn’t know what it is, isn’t used really to seeing anything other than adoration in Blaine’s eyes – and it makes him worry, for Blaine not himself.

"What’s happened? Are you okay?" He strokes a hand down Blaine’s arm.

"Kurt." Blaine’s voice breaks as he says his name and Kurt’s heart is thundering ten to the dozen against the confines of his rib cage. He has no idea what’s happening, why Blaine’s here or what he wants, and Kurt’s _half-naked_ but then they’re in each other’s arms and Blaine’s arms are around his waist and his own are around Blaine’s shoulders. Blaine’s face is pressed right into the side of Kurt’s neck and he’s taking these big gulping breaths as though he’s breathing Kurt in.

"Kurt," Blaine mumbles into his skin, "Kurt."

Just his name over and over like a prayer or a promise or something in between. Kurt pulls away then, takes a deep calming breath and forces himself to meet Blaine’s eyes. Blaine looks a mess: skin flushed, eyes red and shining with tears. He looks like he’s on the edge of falling apart and it takes everything Kurt has not to just reach for him again to make it all go away, except he doesn’t know what it _is._

"What happened, Blaine?"

Blaine shrugs, reaching out a hand toward Kurt and letting it fall limply back to his side. His eyes roam greedily over Kurt, making him think he really ought to grab a shirt, but then Blaine’s talking.

"It’s getting closer, you know. The final." Blaine’s hands are shoved deep in his jacket pockets, his eyes flickering to Kurt’s and away, then back again – he looks almost panicked. Kurt just wants to kiss it better but instead he just nods his head, can sense that this is going somewhere and waits for Blaine to elaborate.

"And Kurt, if we face each other... If we get each other in the semi – or Jesus, the _final_ even – we need to talk about that."

Kurt takes a deep breath. He’d been wondering when this was going to come up, how they’d address it. It’s a very real possibility now that he and Blaine could end up facing each other. Kurt wants to see Blaine succeed more than he can describe, but at the expense of his own success, at the expense of everything he’s worked for? He’s not sure he could do that to his dad, to Holly.  To himself.

"You can’t let me win, Kurt." Blaine is so earnest, reaching at last and taking Kurt’s hand in his. "You can’t play anything other than your absolute best just because it’s me, because of this" – he shakes their joined hands – "or because you think this is my last shot and that you still have next year, and the years after that. You have to _promise me_ that whatever happens you will focus on winning this, at all costs. If it means you thrash me then you thrash me. Do you promise?"

Kurt holds Blaine’s gaze and his breath for a beat before exhaling. "I promise,” he says firmly, "but only if you promise the same thing."

Blaine smiles. "It won’t even matter, I know you’d beat me easily. But yes, Kurt, I promise."

Somehow it feels like something more than what it seems like on the surface, like they’re promising more than to not let their burgeoning relationship get in the way of their tennis – Kurt’s throat feels a little tight. Blaine’s blinking a little too rapidly and all Kurt wants to do is just kiss the breath out of him. He does.

"Good," he says into Blaine’s mouth a few moments later, "then that’s sorted. Now you need to go back to your hotel and I need to sleep because _tomorrow."_ ’

Blaine’s face falls. "I can’t stay?"

"You can’t stay."

"Kurt." Blaine leans in and steals a kiss. "I can’t stay?"

"Blaine. I need to sleep and rest and _focus_. Semi _final,_ remember."

"I could help you rest. And also focus." Blaine’s pleading a little but it’s through a laugh – Kurt knows he’d turn and walk out of the door if he said no. He doesn’t, he just raises an eyebrow and Blaine smiles at him, pretends like he doesn’t know that Kurt needs no convincing.

"Please, Kurt, just for a while, I..." He leans in, kisses Kurt again, deeper this time. "I just– I’m not ready to leave you. I don’t think I’ll ever be ready to leave you."

"My dad will kill me if I let you stay here; he’llkill _you_ if he even knows you’re here."

"You’re 24, Kurt." Kurt raises an eyebrow. Blaine shakes his head in a silent apology, leans forward a little to ghost his lips over Kurt’s. He is sorry, he _is_ – he knows what it’s like with Kurt and his father, how concerned Burt is for his son and why: this is the _semifinals_ of _Wimbledon_. Blaine just doesn’t want to go; any moment spent not by Kurt’s side feels like a moment wasted. Now that they’re here in Kurt’s bedroom and Kurt’s all slightly mussed hair with no shirt on, what is Blaine supposed to do? "I just, _Kurt._ I want to be with you. I _need_ to be with you."

Kurt is beautiful. Blaine can’t get past it somehow, the way the light reflects off his skin, the way his eyes darken a little as Blaine reaches for him and tugs him closer, the pads of his fingers pressing into the skin of Kurt’s hips. It makes his chest tighten, the fact that this is real, this is happening; this between them is bigger than any tennis tournament and they can navigate this, together. The fact he gets to touch Kurt like this, _Kurt is his to touch_. He leans in again, one hand coming up to trace Kurt’s jawline, and presses his lips gently to Kurt’s, tongue flickering out, teeth nipping gently as Kurt exhales against him.

"Please, Kurt." He breathes the words. "Please don’t make me leave.  It’s not even that late."

Kurt smiles - like he was ever going to say no, and his hands come up to grip the back of Blaine’s head, long fingers curling in his hair as he deepens the kiss. In a moment they’ve gone from Blaine’s gently persuasive to Kurt’s _hungry_ – this is a side of Kurt that Blaine has never seen before but a side he kind of knew existed, the side he’s been longing to uncover.

Kurt forces Blaine’s mouth open with his tongue – not that Blaine takes much forcing – and licks his way into his mouth, kissing him desperately, hungrily, all teeth and tongue and little whimpers in the back of his throat that go straight to Blaine’s cock, already straining in his trousers. Blaine moves his hand from where it’s been cupping Kurt’s jaw, runs it down his shoulders and over the planes of his back, over the soft smooth skin that’s so cool beneath his fingers. _Good_ God _Kurt has a gorgeous body_ , he thinks, his fingertips pressing into the small of Kurt’s back, the tip of his little finger sliding ever so slightly beneath the elasticated waist of Kurt’s pajama bottoms as he presses closer still. He mouthes gingerly down Kurt’s jaw, sucking a little at that spot below his ear that he already knows is so sensitive.

Kurt tilts his head, elongating his neck as he grips Blaine’s shoulders. Blaine shudders out a breath, presses wet open-mouthed kisses to the tendons there. He wants to suck, bite, _mark_.

Minemine _mine_.

He knows Kurt would kill him, though. There will be close-ups tomorrow and _hickeys are trashy, Blaine,_ even though Blaine thinks they’re totally hot regardless. He can’t resist a quick nip though – revels in the noise it draws from Kurt, the way he’s suddenly backing Blaine up against the bed, tugging at his t-shirt. Blaine pauses, manages to drag his mouth away from Kurt’s neck long enough to pull his shirt over his head and shimmy out of the jeans that Kurt has unbuckled – when did that happen? He pushes Kurt’s pants down over his hips and they fall backwards onto the bed with much less grace than Blaine had imagined in his head.

And then they’re naked, Kurt is naked beneath him and he’s so gorgeous. Just that, just Kurt bare and open and exposed and _his,_ it takes Blaine’s breath away, makes his chest tighten. He can’t ever ever remember it being like this before, not with anybody. He leans in to capture Kurt’s mouth in a kiss before he can see that the very sight of him is enough to make Blaine fall apart.

It’s fumbled and new and hurried the way it always is the first time, with Blaine kissing too fast and Kurt kissing too slow, teeth clashing and noses bumping and desperate sounds escaping from the very depths of them. Blaine holds himself above Kurt and lets his wrists, which bracket Kurt’s head, hold his weight as he looks down at the man beneath him on the bed, presses kisses to his lips, his eyes, his nose, his collarbone, his sternum.  Kurt is exquisite, unreal almost, all perfect skin and sharp planes and toned muscle. Abs; that shouldn’t surprise Blaine, but it kind of does. Blaine wants to cover every inch of Kurt with his mouth, to kiss him everywhere.

Kurt is touching him. Blaine feels his hands in his hair and ghosting over his shoulders, down his back, gripping his ass for a second, touching everywhere but never resting like he wants to just touch Blaine and not leave a single inch untouched – the realization that maybe that’s true is a little overwhelming. He kisses Kurt, deep and hungry, swallowing down his moans until Kurt pushes him up and away, just a little, snakes a hand between them to run the tips of his fingers gently down the length of Blaine’s cock. Blaine feels his entire body tremble at the touch, and Kurt says, "Blaine,” although it sounds like more of a plea.

Blaine drops his forehead, rests it for a moment in the curve between Kurt’s shoulder and his neck. He tries to refocus because it’s almost too much and he can’t come yet, he _can’t_.

This is happening.

_This is happening._

Kurt lifts his hips, his cock brushing against Blaine’s, says it again: _"Blaine.”_ Blaine lifts his head, kisses Kurt again on the lips fast and firm and then moves, lips brushing against the skin of Kurt’s chest as he moves down, down, down.

Kurt’s cock is as stunning as the rest of him, slightly darker in color and so so hard. It twitches, jerking away a little from where it rests against his stomach, and Blaine wonders if he should maybe take this slow, their first time, make it something to remember, but the tip is glistening and Kurt’s hands are fisting in the sheets. He flicks out his tongue, licking a wet strip from balls to head and then taking Kurt in his mouth. His tongue flickers over the tip of his cock, tasting him, licking and teasing  as Kurt says his name over and over like a mantra.

BlaineBlaineBlaineBlaine _Blaine_.

He loses track of time, but it doesn’t feel like long enough, will _never be long enough_ , before Kurt’s tensing beneath him, back arching as he moans, "Blaine, _Blaine,_ I’m going to–" and Blaine just hollows out his cheeks, hums a little, tongue flattening and laving against the underside of Kurt’s cock. Then Kurt’s letting out an almost strangled cry when Blaine pulls off, grinning against Kurt’s skin as Kurt swears, "Fuck, Blaine, so _close_ , why’d you _stop…”_ He presses a kiss to the tip of Kurt’s cock, to his hipbone, to that flat patch of stomach below his belly button before Kurt tugs him back up the bed, body still shaking and breath coming hard and fast. He pulls Blaine close, trapping their cocks between them – Blaine’s saliva isn’t quite enough but neither of them is with it enough to care – and kissing him hard. Kurt’s rolling his hips up slowly, the pressure is just right and Blaine is already so close, could have come just from Kurt’s cock in his mouth. He whimpers as Kurt murmurs in his ear, "That’s it. That’s it, Blaine, so good, so hot."

There’s an “I love you” trying to fight its way out but Blaine can’t say it, is still – even now – too afraid to say it. He comes biting Kurt’s name into his shoulder with Kurt’s arms around him, holding him close and tight; as Kurt’s own orgasm follows his head is thrown back, his body quivering.

They curl up in Kurt’s bed afterwards even though it’s early but they don’t sleep much, Kurt even less than Blaine; he feels like every time he dozes off there’s another soft kiss pressed to the top of his spine or another touch of fingertips, gently calloused from years of holding a tennis racket, trailing softly through the hair beneath his navel. He could ignore it, shuffle backwards into Blaine’s embrace and let sleep take over, but he has this gorgeous wonderful man naked in his bed and wanting him, so there’s kisses in the dark and whispered promises and sleepy orgasms. It’s probably kind of disgusting how damp and sticky and sweaty they are, but for the first time in his life Kurt doesn’t care. He watches Blaine when he finally falls asleep: the way his eyelashes curve against his skin, his mouth hangs slightly open, and his body curves in towards Kurt’s legs, tangled at the ankle. His hair’s a mess, all damp curls. Kurt doesn’t think he’s ever seen anything quite as beautiful as the rise and fall of this man’s chest and he really needs to _sleep_ but how can he? There’s a part of him still afraid that if he closes his eyes, Blaine will be gone when he wakes up.

As it happens, that isn’t exactly how it goes. It’s Holly knocking gently on the door and sticking her head ‘round. Her expression softens at the sight of them curled together even as Kurt is tugging the comforter up, trying to cover as much naked skin as he can in a split second.

"I’m sorry to do this, cupcake, but your dad just called – he’s calling for Chinese and he’ll be back here in 20. If you want to avoid a fall-out then maybe you should get Eyebrows outta here pronto."

Kurt groans, tugging Blaine closer to kiss him softly. The giggle at Blaine’s panic-stricken face escapes unbidden and makes Blaine laugh in return before he shakes his head soberly. "She’s right, Kurt. Your dad– I should go."

"I’m 24, Blaine," Kurt says, firing back Blaine’s words from earlier, but he knows it’s true, knows that as much as he wants to keep Blaine here with him, to fall properly asleep with him and wake in the morning tangled up together, it’s not a possibility. At least, not right now.

It doesn’t matter, not really; they have all the time in the world for all that stuff. He kisses Blaine again, soft and lingering, then grabs his pants from the floor and shimmies back into them, crossing his legs on the bed and watching with a fond smile as Blaine flies around the room dressing like he’s on fast-forward. Before he leaves Blaine presses a smacking kiss to Kurt’s lips, accentuated by a " _mwah_ ” and a grin. Kurt flops back on the pillows, presses his hand to his mouth and lets himself squeal.

Best tournament ever.

 


	6. Chapter 6

"This could be it," Wes says with an easy smile, folding his paper carefully in half and taking a sip of his tea. Blaine raises an eyebrow questioningly. He’s trying to pay attention, he really really is, it’s just _hard_ to be focused on work when all he really wants is to be tracing every inch of Kurt’s skin with his tongue, teasing and tasting and drawing those delicious noises out of him again. It had been so so hard to leave him last night and right now it’s harder still to be somewhere he is not. Frankly, Blaine can count on one hand the number of fucks he gives about tennis right now. He is in _love_. What matters more than that?

"You could make the final, you’re just two matches away,” Wes says as though Blaine is being purposefully dense. Blaine gives a one-shouldered shrug and tears a chunk off his croissant. He wonders dreamily whether he’ll have time to meet with Kurt later if he hurries this up, before he has no choice but to be consumed by stuff like training and media and all manner of things that are not making out with Kurt Hummel.  He feels ridiculously like a horny teenager.

"We’ve been here before," he reminds Wes, "don’t count your chickens.” It still feels odd to be the voice of reason in all of this. Wes has always believed Blaine has a Wimbledon Championship in him somewhere and is never more vocal about that belief than when Blaine doesn’t believe in himself but he never gets _excited_ like this, eyes shining as he all but bounces in his seat.

"We have," Wes agrees. "–but not like this. The kid you have in your semi – because you _will_ get that far –  has fluked his way through." He pats the file on the table in front of him and says, "We can beat him, I know it. And your friend Kurt” – he puts heavy emphasis on the word “friend”; all Blaine can do is grin a little dopily – “is pretty much guaranteed to win his quarter. The draw means his semi would be Smythe, and I am confident he can wipe the floor with him."

"So am I," Blaine chimes in, animated for the first time all morning. The final spot is Kurt’s and Blaine knows it, wants it for him so badly it makes his chest tight. He’s willing to admit he won’t be unhappy to see the smug grin wiped off Sebastian’s face either. "Kurt is... he’s _incredible."_

Wes leans forward to snap his fingers in Blaine’s face. "Focus, Blaine. That means if all goes according to plan you should have your first final spot, and in all honesty, as good as Kurt is I don’t see him being a fly in the ointment. This could very well be our year. And you didn’t want to take the wildcard," Wes teases in understandably high spirits but Blaine just feels sick.

He’s known it might happen. God, they’d talked about it (before falling into bed) for this very reason but still, it hadn’t seemed quite real then, was a distant possibility that they needed to talk about _in case_ , a touchy subject they needed to get out of the way so they could focus on each other. The fact of the matter is Wes is absolutely right: Blaine will more than likely win his next two matches, barring any disasters, and Kurt will more than likely force Sebastian to kiss his dreams goodbye. That pits them against each other in the final. The problem? Blaine has to give it all he’s got – he owes it to Wes, frankly he owes it to _himself_ to give it all he’s got – but he wants Kurt to win. He wants to see Kurt lift that trophy more than he thinks he’s ever wanted anything in his life and he knows Kurt wants it too. He also knows that there is absolutely no way Kurt will be at his best on court if he’s playing against Blaine, no matter what promises he’s made.

Truth be told, Kurt’s already losing his focus, has admitted he’s not working as hard as he would normally; they’ve been distracting each other but it hasn’t mattered, it’s been what they both wanted ‘til now. Now it’s all changing and Blaine might not know Kurt well, but he knows enough, knows that he will – perhaps without even realizing – sabotage his own game to let Blaine win. He’s aggressive on court, every match is like a fight, like a point to be proved, but he won’t fight Blaine.

Not unless he’s pissed at him. Really, really pissed at him.

 

**: :**

 

"It’s not what I _want,_ Kurt," Blaine says a little later, shuffling a little closer to Kurt on the small bench in the Hummel’s rented back garden. Haltingly, he reaches out a hand before pulling back and curling it back into his lap.  

This is so hard, harder than Blaine had anticipated – he’d given himself a pep talk back at the hotel, had stood in front of the dresser mirror and fixed his best stern expression on his reflection. _This is the right thing to do. Kurt_ matters. _Kurt’s dreams, Kurt’s career matter._ Blaine cannot be the one to destroy all that Kurt has worked towards, not if he really truly loves him. And if he doesn’t do all he can to make sure that Kurt at least gives the final his all – fine, he might not have the spot yet but he _will_ – well, won’t that be Blaine doing the very thing he’s so desperate to avoid?

Except then Kurt had answered the door all shining eyes and bright smiles, tugging Blaine in for a hug, pressing his face to Blaine’s neck and breathing him in. Everything felt right to Blaine in the circle of his arms. When Blaine said he wanted to talk he’d tipped his head to one side in concern, had led him to the garden. It was a strange choice, granted, but Blaine is so glad he chose here and not his bedroom. Then he’d backed Blaine up against a wall anyway and licked his way into Blaine’s mouth, moaning those little breathy moans that go straight to Blaine’s groin as he kissed the air out of him. All Blaine was able to do was grip him by the hips and be kissed.

Be kissed and kiss back.

And then his conscience kicked in, little Jiminy fucking Cricket, and so here Blaine is, sitting on the bench and trying to talk but not quite sure anymore what it is he needs to say. He wants to touch Kurt so badly, but if he gets his fingers on that soft skin then he’s not sure he’ll be able to follow this through. Kurt raises an eyebrow. He looks pale under the moonlight, paler than usual and so confused. Blaine wants to kiss the pained expression off his face.

"What’s not what you want, Blaine? I’m not sure what you’re saying here."  

Which makes sense, Blaine thinks, because he’s not sure what he’s saying either. He’s making zero sense, saying everything but what he intended to say because voicing the words is going to hurt too much. Somehow he’s hoping Kurt will read between the lines and make this whole fucking thing easier.

"I spoke to your dad a few days ago," he tries and then stops, shakes his head because it’s not fair, really, to put this on Burt. It might have been Burt’s words about what this means to Kurt that made this decision seem like the right one, but Blaine is a grown man and he makes his own decisions – this is all him. He tries again: "It’s not what I _want,_ Kurt, but I believe it’s what’s right." The words come out in a rush, tumbling over each other as his heart picks up speed within the confines of his chest. "I don’t think we should do this anymore."

Kurt lets out a breath Blaine hadn’t noticed he’d been holding, the expulsion of air loud in the quiet of the garden and his face crumples a little. Jesus, even that’s enough to shatter Blaine’s heart. He wants to reach out, wrap Kurt in his arms and take it all back.

_I didn’t mean it._

Except that he did mean it. He _has to_ mean it because he loves Kurt and love isn’t selfish. While it would be so easy to pretend like his conversations with Burt hadn’t happened, to play tennis and to spend every spare moment with his lips ghosting across Kurt’s skin, it would also be wrong and unfair to Kurt. Blaine doesn’t _ever_ want to do wrong by Kurt.

"You deserve everything, Kurt. You deserve more than this." He gestures to the space between them which suddenly feels like a chasm. "I need you to win. You need to be focused on _you_ and not on me. Or us."

Kurt has pulled away a little, long arms wrapped around his slender frame as though he’s curling in on himself, as though he’s curling away from Blaine. He looks pissed (and who knew Blaine was the king of the understatement?).

"We talked about this, Blaine. We did this already. Who gave you the right to make that decision, who gave you the right to decide what I _deserve?"_

"It’s not that I don’t want us to be together, Kurt."

Kurt snorts, rolls his eyes and _glares_ at Blaine, his eyes dark and flashing with anger. Blaine has never seen an expression like that on Kurt’s face, never imagined that if he ever did it would be directed at him – it’s like another punch to his gut.

Worse than that, though, is that already Blaine knows Kurt well enough to be able to see the anger for what it is: a shield, hiding his pain. Kurt is hurting and it’s Blaine’s fault. Every single cell of his _aches_ to close the gap between them, to pull Kurt into his arms where he belongs and to say that he’s sorry and he’s being an idiot and _of course he doesn’t mean it_. He doesn’t, though, instead he steels himself against it and blinks away his tears, hardens his resolve because however much this hurts – and it’s fucking _torturous_ – it’s the right thing to do. Maybe that will be a comfort, eventually.

"I do _want this_ , Kurt. Want you, I mean." He tries to reassure but it sounds fake. Blaine has never hated himself more. He remembers an age-old adage: “If you love somebody let them go.” Repeats it over and over in his head hoping that eventually it will feel like the truth.

"Then don’t do this. _Don’t do this_ ," Kurt almost pleads and in goes the knife, right into Blaine’s heart.

"Blaine, please. I....I love you.” He whispers those three words so quietly that Blaine has to strain to hear them and the knife twists, 180 degrees and back again, the pain sharp and crippling. Blaine can barely manage to speak, wants to say them back and use them to erase the last five minutes but he _can’t._

" _Kurt._ It’s– It’s just… it’s moving so fast and we both have so much going on right now and I know what this means to you, this tournament. Your dad– I, _I_ just think we need to put some space between us. Maybe we can call it a _break,_ not a break _up._ Maybe we can get the next couple weeks out of the way and..."

"Fuck you, Blaine Anderson.” Kurt pushes himself to his feet then, shakes his head from side to side. "I’m not some toy you can pick up and put down when it suits you. If it’s over then it’s over."

Then he’s gone, the back door slamming heavily behind him. It’s gone exactly how it was supposed to go. Blaine barely makes it to the bushes before he throws up, emptying the contents of his stomach and then dropping to his knees in the shadows. He had known it would hurt, he hadn’t expected it to be debilitating.

 

**: :**

 

"What the _hell_ is your problem?" Kurt’s yelling as he storms into the house, ignoring Holly as she steps out of the kitchen and heading straight for the lounge. He’s yelling and he doesn’t even care. Burt turns from the TV, reaching for the remote and hitting mute as he looks up at his son in surprise.

"Kurt?"

"Seriously, what the _hell?_ You’re my _dad_ , damnit. My happiness is supposed to matter to you."

"Kurt." Burt holds his hands out, palms out as though trying to calm a wild animal, standing so so slowly and taking a tentative step across the room. Kurt doesn’t back down, can’t back down – he has to get it out because Blaine is gone and it’s all his dad’s fault. If he’s not angry then he’ll be in pain and he just, he can’t.

"What did you say to him? What did you _say_?" He’s screaming now, knows his face will be red and his eyes wild. Kurt feels his hands curling into fists by his sides, has an urge to plant one into his dad’s face and then hates himself right after because this is his dad and he loves him, but he loves Blaine too and now Blaine’s gone. He kept mentioning Kurt’s dad... how can one person he loves take away another just like that, like it’s _nothing_? God, his chest hurts and his head is _spinning_. "Tell me what you said to him."

Burt’s hand comes to rest on his shoulder, heavy, familiar, and damn it all to hell, comforting despite everything. Kurt stops, anger gone as quickly as it arrived because actually, he doesn’t want to know what was said. Whatever it is, it’s going to fucking blow: either Burt said something truly awful and scared Blaine away (which means his dad isn’t who Kurt thought he was because he should have seen how Kurt felt about Blaine), or else Blaine was just never as invested in this as Kurt thought he was, as _Kurt_ was and has taken the first chance he can to back off. Maybe it’s all been a joke at Kurt’s expense all along – he has a flash then of Blaine drinking somewhere with Sebastian and _laughing_ about him – and it’s enough to make him want to just _sob_. He doesn’t know which is worse, being hurt by his dad or being hurt by Blaine.

Perhaps they’re both equal, perhaps when it really comes down to the bone pain is just pain.

"You know what, just forget it. I don’t care." He shrugs his dad’s hand away and takes a step back, can feel the tears prickling his eyes but he’ll be damned if he lets them fall.

"Kurt." His dad looks pained. "Just– I don’t even know what’s happened. Sit down, buddy, let’s talk this over."

Kurt shakes his head, cannot, will not, and _does not want_ to talk to this man, his _father_ , and lets out a mirthless laugh. "Let’s not bother. I have nothing to say to you."

It’s true. He has nothing at all to say. Kurt Hummel is all out of words, doesn’t even have the energy to slam the door on his way out, just letting it fall closed behind him with a click. He lays, still in his clothes and shoes _,_ stretched out on his bed and ignoring the knocks on his bedroom door, the calls to _please open up:_ his dad three times, Holly, Finn.

They can fuck off, they can all just fuck off for all Kurt cares. He should have known better, should have known that this was never going to be his happy ever after, that it wouldn’t end in him getting what he wanted. When it comes to affairs of the heart when has what Kurt wanted ever come into it?

He doesn’t know what to do.

He wants to still be angry, wants to blame Blaine for giving up, wants to blame his dad for whatever he said, wants to blame himself for not being _enough_. There’s the gnawing thought that Blaine wanted a break and Kurt had called for a break _up,_ and did that make it his fault? But he’s not angry, not really; the emotions aren’t there.  All there is is a mind-numbing pain and a sudden hollow realization that right now the only things he can rely on, has ever been able to rely on in his entire sorry excuse for a life, is a racket and a little yellow ball.

He closes his eyes, remembers a small boy in shorts and a bright green t-shirt, legs a little too long and a little too spindly, with a smile that never reaches his eyes. Remembers feeling lost and hurt and so alone, so confused and angry and guilty although he hadn’t been able to put a name on the emotions back then, just knew that he missed his Mommy. Remembers people trying to help and how the only thing that had been any comfort at all had been the thud of a tennis ball against a garage wall.

 _Fuck you all_ , Kurt thinks bitterly, because tennis had saved him then and tennis will save him now and he doesn’t need Blaine or his dad or anybody. He’ll win this tournament and everyone else, well, they can do whatever the hell they want but they won’t break him. He is Kurt Hummel. He is his mother’s son and he will not be broken.

 

**: :**

 

Blaine thinks this must be what it feels like to die of a broken heart, all slow and agonising. He can’t sleep, can’t eat, has no interest in anything at all and even Wes for all his tried and tested pep talks can’t break him out of his funk. All he can do is read back through text messages from Kurt, so many little gray and blue bubbles that had filled his heart with joy only hours ago and now make him want to rip out his own eyes. He hopes Kurt isn’t doing the same thing, hopes he doesn’t see the little iMessage dots appear on his screen as Blaine repeatedly starts and stops typing out a message he never sends. Blaine thought he’d been doing the right thing ending it, but can something right feel this wrong? If so then how fucking shit is that and what’s the point? No wonder the damn crime rate is always rising if the only things that don’t make you feel like you’re falling to pieces are the wrong things.  

He watched Kurt’s quarterfinal on television the day before – had told Wes it was research but really he was just punishing himself. He’d wanted to text Kurt and wish him luck but had sat on his bed in his sweats instead. Watching Kurt walk out onto the court looking beautiful and regal and untouchable, he’d barely resisted reaching out to touch the screen when they showed his close-up. There were bags under his eyes, heavy and dark, but he carried himself tall, head held high and chin in the air, mouth drawn in a tight line. His expression so loudly screamed out a “fuck you” to anybody who knew what to look for, to Blaine. He looked like he was made of ice, like some kind of on-court assassin, and Blaine felt kind of sorry for his opponent. Kurt was taking no prisoners; he played tennis and he played to win. Blaine couldn’t help wondering if he was imagining the ball was his head because Kurt hit it with such force, sending it screaming across the court so fast that the other guy didn’t stand a chance.

He’d taken the match in straight sets. It was a phenomenal game: the crowd went wild, were on their feet and screaming, and Kurt didn’t react, didn’t break a smile, just shook his opponents hand and swung his bag over his shoulder. God, Blaine had tried and is still trying to tell himself that that made it all okay; Kurt is back in the game, he has a semifinal place. That was what everyone wanted – what Burt wanted, what Kurt wanted, what Blaine _wants_ for Kurt – except that Kurt didn’t look like a man living his dream. The light’s gone out in his eyes and it’s killing Blaine slowly from the inside out.

He’s a set down in his own quarterfinal and he can’t stop scanning the crowd for Kurt even though he knows he won’t be there. Every time he looks towards the stands he’s just drawn to Wes, who’s gnawing on a fingernail and looking more concerned than Blaine has ever seen him.  Problem is, he can’t bring himself to care, is half tempted to just concede and be done with this whole fucking charade because what’s the point now anyway? Except it matters to Wes and none of this is Wes’s fault, really. He wins the second set, barely, loses the third, wins the fourth, two sets all. Blaine is playing the worst tennis of his life and he just wants it to be over, wants to go home. As if luck exists, the other guy is having a worse day than he is and if that’s true Blaine wants to send him a sympathy card. He loses the plot in the last set, balls out all over the place, barely a single serve returned, more double faults than Blaine cares to count. He isn’t even trying, isn’t even playing anything that vaguely resembles tennis and yet there it is – match point. Wes is punching the air and Blaine just wants to cry because all this means is that he can’t get on a plane yet.

Blaine actually genuinely thinks this might be the worst two weeks of his life. He thinks it’s proof, once and for all, that he needs to learn to just listen to his instincts; he hadn’t wanted the damn wildcard, hadn’t wanted to be here at all.

He had wanted to _retire_ , yet here he is because he allowed himself to be persuaded and he allowed himself to believe in Wes’s belief in him. There is still a tiny part of him that is desperate to make his parents proud. Here he is and it’s all falling apart because he’s in love for the first time in his life, probably, and he’s fucked it up. He’s through to the Wimbledon semifinals on the back of a wildcard, which should be an achievement but feels more like a disaster.

In the few interviews Blaine’s let himself watch the media are calling it a fluke that he’s gotten this far, saying his quarterfinal win was more down to good luck than any display of skill, that his tennis has been at best mediocre – which fucking sucks actually because he’s been playing _well_ this tournament until that last awful match. Wes is all up in arms about the way everybody seems to be grabbing at the negatives and turning them into headlines, ignoring the fact that Blaine Anderson is up there with the best this year. Normally Blaine would find Wes’s indignation endearing, normally he’d probably share it (after all, nobody likes to be criticized on a worldwide platform) but as it is he can’t quite bring himself to care.

He’ll play his semifinal and lose it because he doesn’t care enough not to, then he’ll get on a plane and go home and lock his front door, pretend that his life isn’t a big fat sorry mess. For now he’s just trying to get to that point. It’s easier said than done, though. because he’s missing Kurt so much it’s become a physical pain in his chest and Kurt is _everywhere_ – he smashed his way into the semifinals and he’s lighting up every television channel in the world talking about tennis and what it means to him, how much he wants to win, how much this tournament matters. His eyes are full of determination, of a fire that Blaine has never seen before; it scares him a little bit because it doesn’t look like Kurt, not like _his_ Kurt anyway. Of course he can’t really tell from a distance or on the TV screen but it looks to Blaine like there’s something missing, like the Kurt Blaine knows - loves - isn’t there any more; the love, the passion he always had for his game doesn’t seem to be present now, all he has are empty words.

Wimbledon is a small place for all that it’s a teeming hive of activity and he’s seen Kurt around and the man’s so fucking beautiful but he’s never alone, always with his dad or his coach or his brother. Sometimes it feels to Blaine like he and Kurt are connected by a piece of elastic that’s stretching and stretching to its limit and every atom of him is desperate to just close the gap, to let it snap back into place and be in his arms again, but then Kurt catches sight of him and he visibly inhales, stiffens and looks away. It’s like Blaine can feel his stomach plummet right out the soles of his shoes.

 

**: :**

 

The semifinal is in two days. Blaine is leaning against a wall outside a small coffee shop near the Wimbledon ground, coffee cup in hand and head tipped back against the concrete. He’s trying to care, trying to summon up some kind of enthusiasm and be in a better head space than this before he goes to meet Wes. His manager knows something is wrong, knows Blaine is falling apart, and Blaine knows he’s trying to help but he’s also trying to do his job – Blaine isn’t making that any easier right now and that’s not fair. He needs to put on his game face (maybe dig out that 100 watt smile), needs to at least give the impression of giving a damn but he’s so tired and so lost. What he wants, what he _really wants_ is to get rip-roaring drunk.

"You look like a man in need of a stiff drink."

He looks up in surprise. It’s Kurt’s coach, Holly Golightly or whatever her name is, he knows it’s something ridiculous. Long blonde hair and an indecently short skirt and knee-high boots, head tipped to one side and hand on her hip as she surveys him.  He shrugs. She’s right, actually but she’s also from the enemy camp (it _hurts_ that the enemy is Kurt now) and he has no idea why she’s stopped to talk to him.

"As luck would have it," she says, lips curling upwards into the semblance of a smile, "I’m heading to the pub right now."

She affects a terrible English accent around the word “pub,” her smile widening into a grin as though she finds herself terribly funny. Blaine just looks at her in confusion, tries to remember what Kurt had told him about his slightly insane coach: how she puts on airs like she’s hard as nails but actually has a heart of gold, how sometimes she liked to act like she’s totally self-preserving but Kurt knows she would lay her life on the line for him if it came down to it. Blaine asks himself why, after what he’s done, she’d be here talking to him.

Unless it’s strategic.

"Sabotage,” he says dully and Holly raises a quizzical eyebrow. "That’s all this can be. You know my semi is tomorrow, you know there is no way I should be going anywhere near alcohol, and you are trying to sabotage my chances as some kind of revenge. It’s a wasted effort though, because I’m pretty sure my chances are nil anyway."

"Or maybe I just like having a cute guy on my arm." She shrugs her shoulders and steps forward, tugging him almost roughly away from the wall and looping her arm through his. "Let’s forget about going to a bar and just go for coffee then."

 

**: :**

 

"What the hell is the deal?" Holly asks bluntly, sliding a steaming mug of coffee across the cheap formica table and slipping into the seat across from him. "’Cause I am so confused right now. Kurt was the happiest he’d ever been and now he is right at the opposite end of that spectrum. If I so much as say a word beginning with the letter ‘B’ he fixes me with his best bitch face, which I don’t know if you know is enough to frighten small animals and children to death. And then _you’re_ standing around looking like someone trampled on your puppy. So. Spill."

"Kurt hasn’t told you." Blaine rips open a packet of sugar just for something to do with his hands and tries to tell himself that this situation is not in the least bit weird.

"He told me you guys broke up. He also told me it wasn’t his doing. I caught him crying and Kurt _never_ cries. You hurt him, you look like you hurt yourself; I want to know why."

"You’re not going to kill me?"

Holly shakes her head. "Nope. I just got a manicure."

"I broke it off."

"That’s yesterday’s headline, sunshine. I want to know why. Are you afraid of commitment? Because I get that, you know – I once skipped town because some guy asked me to marry him." She shudders and Blaine’s mouth drops open – is this girl for real?

He shakes his head. "No. No, I...I like commitment, I just. It wasn’t right. I was... I was ruining things for him–"

"Says who?"

"His dad. Kurt, kind of. _Me,"_ he says softly. Somehow he’s a little bit ashamed, like he’s tattling maybe or like he’s not man enough to stand up for his own decision and so is passing the buck. He stumbles to correct himself: "Not that any of it is Mr. Hummel’s fault, it’s more that he forced me to admit what I already knew: Kurt’s here to win and I was distracting him from that."

"You don’t think there’s more to him than winning Wimbledon?" She snorts, and God, this woman is like nobody Blaine has ever met before. "Jesus, of course you don’t; you’re a tennis player. Listen, sunshine, Burt Hummel is a darling and I love him a hell of a lot but here’s the thing: he’s got his head on all wrong. He still thinks of Kurt as his half-orphaned kid. He wrapped Kurt’s heart up in bubble wrap 16 years ago and he’s had it shoved in the inside pocket of that khaki jacket – the one that’s probably older than Kurt is – ever since. He’s not about to let anyone close enough to unwrap it because he doesn’t trust anyone not to break it. Trouble is, though, that it’s not Burt’s decision anymore, it’s Kurt’s. What Burt thinks is best and what _is_ best aren’t necessarily the same thing."

"You don’t think I was ruining his chances?"

"You were certainly a distraction," she agrees, winking at him over the rim of her mug, "and as Kurt’s coach I should probably have told him to keep his head in the game and leave the screwing ‘til after he’d won the trophy, but you want to know the reason I am the best tennis coach in America?"

Blaine nods even though he’s not sure he entirely agrees with the accolade.

"It’s because I understand balance, how you gotta have a _life_ – you need to do a few shots and dance on a few tables and fuck a few men. It can’t all be about grand slams and medals. Or, if you’re Kurt, you gotta fall in love; he’s never going to be the dancing on tables type. I also like to make all his mistakes for him and that’s the thing here, Blaine. Here’s what I can tell you: in tennis “love” means sweet fuck all but in life? It means everything. I got the two mixed up once upon a time and it broke my heart. I don’t want to see you and Kurt lose something rare and beautiful by making the same mistakes I did so if you really, truly love him then you need to fix it and you need to fix it now."

 


	7. Chapter 7

Kurt had always thought he knew heartache.

He didn’t.

Not like this anyway, not this pain in his chest that feels like someone has reached in through his ribcage and twisting hard at his heart; not this knowing that Blaine is so close and not being able to have him or touch him; not having all he ever wanted and more handed to him on a plate only to be snatched away at the last minute. It’s the worst and what makes it harder is he’s angry. It’s not just pain, it’s raw _fury_ that he just can’t seem to get rid of, anger at Blaine because he knows, deep within him, that Blaine wants to be with him, that Blaine cares, that he’s just scared and it hasn’t all been nothing. Fuck, it just makes it so much worse, because Blaine’s just _given up_ , he’s too scared to fight for Kurt and what they have. Kurt wants to be worth fighting for. So he’s hurting and he’s so so mad and he can’t get any of it out of his head. It’s there all the time, buzzing under his skin – the way Blaine kissed him, the way Blaine left him. He can’t make it stop.

It’s the need to forget, even if just for a few short hours, more than anything that drives him to this central London bar. He took a cab, didn’t tell anyone where he was going, and is ignoring the voice in the back of his mind telling him that he should be home sleeping and resting because he’s in the semi-fucking-finals. Instead he sets out with the sole intention of getting drunk enough to at least stop feeling so damn much. His hair is perfect, his shirt clings just right, and his jeans might hang from his hips looser than he’d usually wear (because his skinny jeans just remind him of Blaine and " _fuck, Kurt, your ass”_ ) but they’re no less flattering. He looks amazing because he’s Kurt Hummel, it’s his MO, but he doesn’t look like _him_ , because looking like himself is intrinsically tied to _Blaine_ now.  

He also knows he’s probably going to get recognized.

Whatever.

He doesn’t live in a bubble – he has Twitter and Facebook pages, he reads the gossip mags. Tennis doesn’t have crazy screaming fangirls in the same way movie stars do but still, he’s seen the messages, read the stories. He knows the rumors that have sprung up in the couple of weeks; his name and Blaine’s caught up in whispers, candid photographs taken when he thought they’d been so careful, Kurt and Blaine _KurtandBlaine_. People are watching him. People will watch him. Well, maybe that’s what he needs to do: get drunk and dance with some faceless guy, let the camera phones snap away, and hope Blaine gets the message.

 _Fuck you._ That’s the message.

He doesn’t expect to see Cooper.

He probably should have expected to see Cooper.

Pick an ostentatious bar in Central London because of the high chance you’ll be photographed and because you want to stick two fingers up at your ex almost-boyfriend, it stands to reason you’ll spot Cooper Anderson within the first two minutes. He’s lounging against the bar wearing black trousers and a gray shirt open at the collar and he looks _hot._ Kurt feels his stomach swoop a little because yeah, he might actually know Cooper now but that doesn’t make him any less aesthetically pleasing.

He orders a rum and coke – “ _Make it a double_ _and one for that guy” –_ raises his glass at Cooper as the man looks in his direction questioningly, face lighting up in recognition with that trademark smile. Then he downs the lot, orders another and downs that too.

"Hey, Kurt!" Cooper’s all bright smiles and bone-crushing hugs. Kurt doesn’t much care for his cologne. Another black mark against the Anderson name, then, except not in Blaine’s case – Blaine always smells so good.

Fuck.

He orders another round of drinks.

"You okay, buddy?"

"Peachy," Kurt says, chinking their glasses together. Cooper’s looking at him oddly as he downs the best part of that one too. _Judgey Mcjudgerson,_ he thinks to himself and giggles, well past the tipsy mark already.

"Where’s Blaine?" Cooper asks, looking from Kurt to his glass and back again, eyebrow raised.

 _He doesn’t know,_ Kurt realizes suddenly. That’s why the hugs, that’s why the funny looks. Blaine hasn’t even told his brother that he dropped Kurt’s heart from a tenth-story window and then stomped all over it, turning the shattered pieces to dust.

More of a coward than he’d thought then, perhaps.

"I hope he’s back in the hole he crawled out of" he says. Then when Cooper’s mouth falls open a little in shock: "No offense."

Cooper looks like he has questions to ask but Kurt just can’t; he didn’t come here to talk about Blaine, especially not with Blaine’s _brother_. He’s barely holding himself together right now and in all honesty he doesn’t trust himself not to cry if he has to talk about it.  

He cuts Cooper off before he even has chance to speak. "I’m going to dance."

People are staring at him. He can feel their eyes on him as he closes his own and lets his body move to the music, the alcohol buzzing through his veins and making him feel loose and open. People press up against him, hips bouncing against his with every other beat, chests flush to his back and hands gripping his hips for a verse or a chorus before moving on. Kurt just dances, sips from his rum and coke and lets the sweat run down his back, making his shirt cling even tighter. He lets the heat of the dancing crowd and the thud of the bass drown out the fact that he feels like every bone in his body hurts.

 

He managed without Blaine before he had him; he’ll manage without him now.

He gets lost in it, doesn’t know how long he’s been dancing or who with and it’s liberating because this is not a thing he does, ever. A voice in the back of his mind tells him he’ll have to pay for this tomorrow or the next day, but a louder voice tells him he doesn’t give a damn and that’s the voice he listens to until someone grips his wrist, their hand calloused from too many years gripping a tennis racket. His eyes fly open.

"Blaine." He breathes it out on an exhale. This is the closest he’s been to Blaine in days and he looks perfect.

"Fuck, Kurt. What are you _doing?"_ He doesn’t look angry which is good, Kurt thinks, because he doesn’t have the right. But he does look concerned and that’s worse. He pulls his wrist back.

"Dancing," he spits, "not that it’s any of your business." He lets himself look, though, at Blaine. The man’s in a checkered shirt and old jeans and has no gel in his hair, is absolutely not dressed for a night on the town, but looks no less delectable for the fact.

"Why are you here?"

"Cooper," Blaine answers. Of course.

"Well you can just turn around and go right back out the door you came in." He mimics a walking movement with his fingers. "Take your interfering brother with you."

" _Kurt."_ Blaine sounds pained, looks pained. It makes something clench in Kurt’s chest but he pushes it away, reaches for his well-worn defenses and schools his expression into one of disinterest.

"You’re cramping my style,” he says pointedly.

Blaine is either not getting or is choosing to ignore the message. "We need to talk."

" _You_ need to _leave_."

"Kurt. This is… it’s self-destructive, being here. Drinking like this. Let’s go somewhere, let’s talk, let me take you home or get you some food, just, _please,_ this isn’t a good idea."

"I have had as much of your hero complex as I can stomach.” And he really really has; Blaine is a coward who breaks his promises and Kurt can still hear him, all earnest and so convincing: “ _I swear I will never_ _let any part of you, least of all your heart, anywhere near a gutter.”_ Kurt is a little drunk and a lot angry. How dare Blaine turn up like this and tell him what to do and act all gentle and concerned and like he cares? "I’ve had about as much of _you_ as I can stomach. Just. Just go away."

Blaine flinches but he doesn’t leave.

 _"Kurt_." The way he says Kurt’s name sounds like a plea. Kurt doesn’t know what to do with that anymore.

"What do you want?"

"Talk to me?" Blaine asks, begs really. "Just come outside for five minutes, that’s all. Please?"

 

**: :**

 

Blaine had been laying on his bed in pajama pants when Cooper had called, talking too fast about some bar and taking too long to get to the point. The point which, it turns out, was Kurt.

"He’s _manic_ , Blaine, and he seems to _hate_ you.” That had stung, way to go with the tact there, big brother. "–and I don’t know him like you do but something’s not right. I don’t think he’s okay."

He’d demanded an address, grabbed the first clothes he’d come to (worn ones left on the armchair) and had all but sprinted down to the foyer, hailing a taxi and chewing his thumbnail the whole way there. Cooper had been waiting at the bar and pulled him into a hug that Blaine had quickly pulled free from.

"Where is he?"

Cooper had pointed, and yep, there he was, dancing _sinfully_ in the middle of the floor in a t-shirt so tight and jeans hanging so low on his hips that the curve of his hipbone had been visible even from where Blaine stood at the bar. Kurt’s hair was damp with sweat and his skin shone under the lights. Blaine had felt his mouth go dry, had felt something prickle heavy beneath his skin as he watched some guy, lithe and taller than Kurt, take him by the hips, moving with him to the beat of the music and pressing fingers where Blaine’s had pressed only days before. He felt only marginally better at Kurt’s lack of reaction, at the way he’d not pulled away but not danced closer either.

Now, though, they’re standing outside in the shadows against the wall of the bar and Kurt’s eyes are angry and sharp, and Blaine is aware of nothing but the feel of his own heart thundering in his chest can’t even hear the night traffic and the low hum of the bar. He can hear Holly Holliday in his head telling him he needs to fix it, but he’s here now and Kurt’s right in front of him and he doesn’t know how or even if it can be done. He knows this isn’t the time or place – he can’t fix anything outside a bar when Kurt is two sheets to the wind and raw with anger. Still can’t shake the feeling that this whole thing is bigger than what he wants anyway; it’s not about what he wants, it’s about what’s best for Kurt, but Kurt is right in front of him and so so beautiful and it _hurts_ not to touch him

"What do you want?" Kurt asks, voice full of venom. Blaine hasn’t seen him like this before, doesn’t recognize this spiky, defensive version of Kurt; it hurts, but doesn’t make him want the man any less. Blaine can’t help reaching out, placing a gentle hand on his shoulder.

"What’s going on, Kurt? This isn’t you. You have your semifinal to play in less than 48 hours."

Kurt looks at him, shakes his head and huffs out a laugh that is entirely free of mirth.

"Let me help you," Blaine pleads, moving his hand from Kurt’s shoulder to grab his hand. Kurt pulls away, flinching at the touch of skin on skin as though he’s been burnt.

"If you want to help then you’ll go away," Kurt says quietly, fiercely. "Leave me the fuck alone."  

He crosses his arms over his chest and scuffs his toes against the concrete beneath their feet, looking down, looking anywhere but at Blaine. Blaine doesn’t know which hurts more, this or Kurt’s eyes boring into him, full of pain and anger. He swallows hard.

"I never wanted to hurt you," he says softly.

Kurt just laughs again. "Didn’t stop you doing it, though, did it? You don’t get to turn up here and act like you care. You’re not that person anymore, you don’t want to be that person and fine, that’s your choice, but you could at least stay away from me, because seeing you–” He pokes Blaine hard in the chest. "It _hurts me._ I can’t see straight because all I can see is you."

And it’s so raw, so _honest_ ; it’s Kurt laying himself on the line and Kurt doesn’t _do_ that, he keeps himself bottled up and hidden away. The fact that he will still let Blaine see the bare bones of him, even now after everything, is almost too much. _Fix it,_ Holly had said, _Fix it now._

Blaine can’t not kiss him.

He backs him up against the wall, crowding into his space, one hand on Kurt’s hip, the other on the wall by his face, and his lips brushes Kurt’s gently, as easily as if they’d be doing just that forever. It feels to Blaine like they have. For a split second he tries to ask himself what the hell he’s doing – this is not how it’s supposed to play out – but he can’t follow it through because Kurt is pushing his mouth open with his tongue, licking the inside of his mouth, filling his brain with the taste and the smell and the feel of _Kurt_ and leaving no room for questions.

He lets Kurt pull him closer by the hip. His smell is all boy: sour from the sweat of the dance floor, spicy from some kind of cologne. He’s warm and solid, he tastes like rum and another taste that Blaine already knows by heart. It’s pure Kurt.

Kurt kisses like he does everything: like it matters, like he really means it. Blaine breathes him in and Kurt grasps his jaw, steering the kiss like he needs the control. Blaine is happy to let him have it and then just like that it’s gone – Kurt is pushing him away hard, eyes shining with tears. The hands that just moments ago had been holding Blaine’s face, curling into the fabric of his shirt, are in fists by his sides. Blaine reaches out but Kurt lifts a hand to ward him off and he lets his hand fall limply, loosely by his side.

"Kurt."

"Has anything changed?” he asks dully. "All the things you said the other day, do they all still stand?"

Fuck.

He doesn’t answer. His throat has closed up and he can’t bring himself to say “yes” because every single fiber of his being aches to take Kurt in his arms and never let him go, everything else be damned. But he can’t say “no” because it does all still stand, it _has_ to.

Kurt takes a deep breath, swallows hard and closes his eyes for a long second. Blaine can almost hear the conversation he’s having with himself. Then he pushes himself away from the wall, doesn’t even look at Blaine as he steps to the side and away, doesn’t say another word before stretching out an arm to hail a cab. Blaine doesn’t even watch him go, can do nothing but stare at the wall and wonder what the fuck he is doing with his life.

 

**: :**

 

It’s a banging on his door that wakens Kurt the day of his semifinal rather than his alarm and he groans as he opens his eyes – it feels like just five minutes since he actually fell asleep and he feels a little bit like a zombie. He arches his back, stretching his arms out above his head. Kurt had woken with the fuzziest head the day before, payback for getting stupidly drunk stupidly fast, but still he’d been able to remember every minute detail of the previous night, of Blaine, of their fight. Of their kiss. He’d trained hard yesterday, had to because no matter how messed up his headspace is, today still matters. Otherwise he would have been left with nothing to do but think of Blaine. Blaine who romanced him and left him and turned up at a bar and kissed him. Blaine who plays his own semifinal before Kurt’s today. Kurt tries to tell himself he doesn’t care.

"Alright," he yells towards the door. Whoever is on the other side is still banging. It can only be Finn. "I’m awake."

"Dude. You’d better be. Your dad’s so pissed right now I swear his eyes have changed color. Have you seen the time?"

Fuck.

Somehow in the midst of _his life falling apart_ Kurt had forgotten to set his alarm. Fabulous. He has no clue why his family, his _team,_ have waited until now to wake him; surely knocking on the door 90 minutes ago would have been more productive than waiting ‘til now and tearing him a new one, but whatever. He’s late. He has a semifinal to play much sooner than he’d strictly like, which means he’s going to have to drastically cut down his pre-match preparation routine, and he thinks he might have a delayed hangover. This is not a good start to the day, although at least he won’t have time to think about about how Blaine’s faring in his own match. He yells at Finn to back off, sends him away to reassure Burt and do some kind of damage control, then despite himself, he reaches for his cellphone.

In the romantic comedies that he’s always been a fan of, that he watches from Rachel’s bed snuggled between her and Mercedes with a large bowl of kettle corn nestled on his lap, there’s always a happily ever after. One thing, though, is becoming increasingly crystal clear: Kurt Hummel’s life is not a rom-com.

His cellphone screen is blank and he’s heard nothing since Blaine had turned up, all earnest and concerned, at the bar and kissed him on the street corner. Now Kurt’s left with nothing but confusion and despite his deep-seated fury, he can’t help but _hope_ that somehow he’ll wake up and it will have all have been a dream – Blaine will still be here, so perfect and wonderful, like the physical manifestation of all Kurt had ever wanted and all he’d never let himself hope for. Instead there continues to be nothing. He’d kissed Kurt, let him get in a taxi, and then nothing.

Radio fucking silence.

He feels like he might actually be sick. Blaine’s a sportsman, not an actor, but it seems he was pretty convincing when he talked Kurt into his bed; he feels like all Blaine’s been playing is him.

Fuck.

Except today’s the semifinal and Kurt can’t afford to dwell. He swallows, sets his shoulders. He’s Kurt Hummel, he’s battled worse than Blaine Anderson in his life and come out the other side. He heads for the shower.

 

**: :**

 

"Blaine played well," Holly says in too light a tone to really be conversational. Kurt’s in the changing rooms of Court Number 1, testing the tension in his strings.

"Right." He feels his stomach swoop.

"Straight sets."

"Right," he says again, giving her a sideways glance and wondering exactly what her angle is. He doesn’t want to talk about Blaine. Holly shouldn’t want to talk about Blaine, she should want to talk about Kurt and the fact he is moments away from playing his semifinal against Sebastian fucking _Smythe_ of all people. That’s what Kurt is paying her to do, after all.

He’s about to tell her as much when she says gently, a hand on his arm, "He won, Kurt. Blaine’s in the final."

Kurt thinks, for the second time that day, that he might be sick. Blaine is in the _final_. His instinctive reaction is pure, unadulterated joy. _Blaine is in the final_ , he’d all but given up on himself and here he is and Kurt’s just so proud, except what does it matter? Blaine doesn’t want Kurt, not really, not _seriously._

"I’m glad," he says, because Holly is looking at him strangely and he could do without another one of her heart-to-hearts. "About Blaine."

Holly offers him a smile, slides her hand down his arm to tangle their fingers together and squeezes gently. "I don’t know what’s going on with you boys," she starts, "but I know Blaine–"

"Deserves that spot in the final," Kurt finishes, squeezing her hand back before extricating his fingers. He doesn’t know what it is about her but she’s just so damn tactile and even after all these years she can’t seem to understand that Kurt just isn’t. "Just like I deserve mine, so if you’ll excuse me, _Coach,_ I’m going to go out there and get it."

"You go get ‘em, Tiger."

 

**: :**

 

Sebastian is grinning at him as they walk onto the court to warm up, or at least Kurt thinks it’s a grin – it’s all teeth and narrow eyes and a little like Sebastian is just biding his time, ready to rip him to shreds. Probably because he is. God, of all the people he had to get in the semifinal he got Sebastian Smythe. He’s just thinking it couldn’t get much worse when he realizes that he could be playing opposite Blaine. That would have been worse.

Blaine.

He feels sick, sick and so fucking _tired_. God, he must’ve been insane to even get out of his bed this morning because not once in his entire life has he played a decent game of tennis, nevermind at championship level, after less than five hours of sleep. His eyes sting and he rubs at them furiously, dropping his bag by his chair and wrapping a hand around his racket. He can hear the crowd cheering a little, some calling his name, some Sebastian’s, and he swallows hard, tries to center himself.

"Where’s your _boyfriend,_ Hummel? Not as interested in your game - or you - as you thought?"

Kurt ignores him, concentrates on checking his strings.

"But then you weren’t there to support him yesterday, were you? Conspicuous by your absence. Is there trouble in paradise?" He’s using that same light conversational tone he used the first time they met and it makes Kurt see red, or rather a light pink; red would require energy he really can’t afford to waste right now.

Sebastian continues, "He played phenomenally, did you hear? I don’t think I’ve ever seen him so on fire, and I’ve been at almost all his important games. It’s going to be interesting for us playing against each other tomorrow but then, all’s fair in love and tennis, isn’t it? I must admit, Blaine didn’t seem too bothered about you when he launched himself into my arms in the changing rooms after... Ready to warm up?"

Then he’s sauntering across to the edge of the court leaving Kurt with a sick feeling in his stomach. All he can hear is Sebastian’s voice: " _Blaine_ _likes it rough – he likes it dirty, he likes being fucked hard up against a wall... I know what he likes; I was giving him what he liked before he even knew he liked it.”_ What if it’s more or less true, what if Kurt just hadn’t been good enough, exciting enough, imaginative enough? What if what they had shared had blown Kurt’s mind but had just been too _vanilla_ for Blaine, what if all he’d wanted was a bit of fun and once he’d gotten that he’d left before the wet spot had even dried, _launched_ himself back into Sebastian’s arms to fight him for the trophy and to let Sebastian fuck him just the way Blaine likes?

He doesn’t want it to be true, can still see the look in Blaine’s eyes, the way he’d touched Kurt like he was something precious, can still hear the things he’d said and it all feels so real, more so than all the heartache that came after but maybe that’s because Kurt wants so desperately for it to be real. Kurt’s overactive imagination is going ‘round and ‘round in his head and he can’t focus on his warm-up, then the court has filled up and the umpire is calling for “ _Quiet, please”_ and this is it: he has to make it to the final or else it’s all been for nothing.

He just can’t get his head straight, isn’t really concentrating the way he needs to, and loses the first set, 6-2. Sebastian is good, really really good. Kurt needs to get a grip. He buries his face in his towel when they break, takes some deep breaths. He cannot let Sebastian Smythe walk this match; he can beat him, he _knows_ he can beat him, he just has to make it happen. The umpire calls time and Kurt looks up, over to his dad, Holly, Rachel, Finn. They all look so tense – at this rate Kurt’s going to give his dad another heart attack. Rachel offers him a small smile, biting down on her bottom lip and raises her eyebrows, a silent show of support. Kurt wishes he was anywhere else but here.

And then, a glance to the left a little. Blaine.

His heart is suddenly in his mouth – Blaine came. He’s here and what does that mean? Does that mean that Blaine still wants him, that they still _are?_ Does it mean he’s here for Kurt? Does it mean he’s here because whoever wins this match is his opponent in the final? Or does it mean – and Kurt’s stomach turns again – he’s here for Sebastian?

" _Blaine_ _didn’t seem too bothered about you when he launched himself into my arms in the changing rooms after."_

He catches Blaine’s eye but can’t bring himself to smile. Blaine does, though, a small one that slowly lights up his face. Kurt wants to think it’s small because it’s just for him, a private moment, but that fucking _voice_ in the back of his mind is telling him differently, that it’s a small smile because it’d be impolite not to and Blaine Anderson is always polite, even when he’s breaking your heart. Blaine mouths something but Kurt can’t make out what it is and doesn’t have time to think about it, really, because it’s his serve. He has a match to play.

And he does try to play, he really really does – it’s not a total trainwreck, but still he’s frustrated. His ankle is playing up so he can feel it aching the whole time and he’s just so tired, every lift of his arm, every jump, every run feels like moving limbs made of lead. When Sebastian sends a pearl of a forehand right by him and Kurt misses it by a mile, the crowd groans and all he can do is drop his head in frustrated anger, swearing under his breath and not even caring whether the cameras catch his yawn. He overshoots his next shot (another point to Sebastian) and then his attempt at a drop shot, which Kurt usually excels at, slides down the net. Final point to Sebastian. Fuck fuck fuck.

The commentators will be having a _field_ day with this. He knows what they’ll be saying: that Kurt’s tennis is lazy, which probably seems accurate but really isn’t, it’s just that he’s exhausted; that Sebastian is exceeding expectations – annoyingly true; that there’s self-doubt in Kurt’s eyes, which there is but it’s not about his tennis; that he’s seeded higher than Smythe and this game should be his but he’s letting it go, a should-be secure win is being whipped out from underneath him.

Problem is that Kurt is genuinely doing his best here; the tennis he’s playing right now is the best he can do given the circumstances and it’s just not good enough. What’s worse, he can’t stop looking at Blaine, who is sitting on the edge of his seat and looks more tense than Kurt has ever seen him. Kurt wishes tennis was more like football, that there was a half-time mark because he just needs to talk to Blaine, needs to know what the fuck is going to happen next and why he’s here acting like it’s Kurt’s game that matters as opposed to any other. Then he could stop thinking about it and maybe be able to concentrate a little bit more on possibly _winning._

Kurt ups his game a little in the last set, giving Sebastian a run for his money, plays some of the kind of tennis he should have been playing all along from sheer desperation more than anything. _He can’t lose this_ but it’s too little too late and Sebastian barely makes any mistakes, all pinging backhands and serving ace after ace. Then it’s 6-6. Kurt misses his first serve and his second is pointless as Sebastian just chips and charges off the back of it. It’s breakpoint at 30-40 and Sebastian snatches it up with a backhand that even Kurt has to admit is quality. He tries to refocus, creeps into the net but that move is his final mistake as Sebastian’s beautiful cross-court sweep skids past him and that’s it, it’s over in three sets: 6-2, 6-4, 7-6.

Game, set, _match_ Sebastian Smythe.

Kurt’s out.

He shakes Sebastian’s hand over the net – he’s still a _sportsman_ , after all, no matter how much it galls him to do so – and he tries to ignore the smug smile on the man’s face, the muttered comments he makes about how he’d warned Kurt this would be the outcome.

"I told you, Hummel. The Championship and Blaine? Mine."

Kurt swallows it all down, responds with a simple "Congratulations, Sebastian," slings his bag over his shoulders and scribbles his name for a few fans as he makes for the tunnel, trying his absolute hardest not to let his heartbreak show on his face as he heads for the cameras.

He’d just, he’d wanted it so badly, _so badly,_ and it had been going so well... He’d been playing so well all along – the tennis of his _career_ , in fact – and he’d stupidly let himself believe that this could be his year.

What an idiot. When is it ever Kurt’s year?

He pushes back his shoulders and sets his jaw, paints on a smile for the cameras. He says he’s always grateful for the opportunity and it was a great match, lots of fun; says Sebastian played extremely well and deserves his spot in the final; wishes Smythe the best of luck and finally gets away. Outside the changing rooms he lets his dad hug him and lets Holly shower him with condolences – he’s grateful to her, knows she’ll dissect his game later and that’s fine, that’s her job, but he really can’t take it right now. Kurt promises to see them both back at the house, assuring them that he really is okay and catches Rachel’s eye where she stands by the door with Finn. He shakes his head at them, just once – as much as he loves her he needs to be on his own, she can be incredibly overbearing especially when she’s trying to be supportive. For once in her life, and Kurt is so grateful that it’s right now, she takes the hint and blows him a kiss, hooking her arm with Finn’s and pulling him away.

Sebastian is still soaking up the publicity. There’s camera after camera out there wanting to share in his glory; it’ll be a while before he comes through and Kurt has never been so glad. The changing rooms are empty so he takes his time with his shower and getting dressed, doesn’t let himself wonder where Blaine is – waiting for Sebastian perhaps, or back at his hotel not caring. There’ll still be cameras milling around outside still and Kurt Hummel is not going to let them see him looking anything less than glorious. He’s just adjusting his scarf when he hears his name, startling a little because the sound of Blaine’s voice is so familiar to him now, and he wants to wrap himself in it as much as he wants to never hear it again. It’s kind of conflicting.

"Kurt."

"What do you want, Blaine?"

Blaine looks a little shocked by Kurt’s terse response. Kurt only just resists rolling his eyes; he’s like an injured puppy whenever he doesn’t get his way and honestly, what did he expect? Kurt just lost the semifinal to Sebastian Smythe, he doesn’t have a lot to be spewing kittens and rainbows over. Suddenly Kurt’s angry: he just had to wave goodbye to his dreams and it hurts like hell and it’s Blaine’s _fault,_ really.

Blaine swallows hard, his expression becoming one of sympathy which is like a million times worse.

"I am so, so sorry, Kurt."

"Yes, well, you should be." He doesn’t mean to say the words out loud, doesn’t even realize he has until he sees Blaine stiffen a little, eyes widening. Whatever. Kurt no longer has it in him to care. "What do you _want,_ Blaine, another good luck _fuck_ before the final?"

Blaine flinches, swallows hard. "Kurt, listen, I know you’re hurting."

"Damn right I’m hurting," he spits across the small space between them, grateful he’d at least gotten fully dressed before Blaine showed up. Kurt’s always used fashion like armor, and in too-tight skinny jeans and viciously pointed cowboy boots (that he is absolutely not considering planting in Blaine’s crotch, honestly), in his lightly patterned, quilted blazer and plain silver scarf he feels as well protected as the best-equipped soldier.

Except that he doesn’t.

It’s not even that he’s mad at _Blaine_ , not really, more that he is just _mad_ and he needs to channel it somewhere and Blaine, well he’s _there_.

"I just lost _everything_."

"Kurt..."

"And I took a _chance_ on you. I believed every single word that came out of your stupid, charming mouth. I took a _chance_ on you only so that you could wine me and dine me and then throw me aside once you’d gotten what you wanted. Seems like the rumors about you are true: Blaine Anderson really does like to fuck and chuck."

Those aren’t “the rumors” at all, he’s grossly exaggerating, but it’s kind of worth it just to see the shock on Blaine’s face.

"It wasn’t like that," Blaine protests, reaching a hand out towards Kurt again pleadingly. " _Kurt_. I thought I was doing the right thing. I thought this was _best_. For you."

"Turns out you have no fucking clue what’s _best for me_." Blaine’s still talking but his words aren’t reaching Kurt’s ears, he’s not listening, he’s all expressive hand-gestures and angry words: "It looks to me like all you wanted all along was a quick screw and once you’d gotten it you came up with a petty little excuse to get yourself out. What was it Blaine, you just want in my pants or was it some big tactical plan you cooked up from the beginning because you know you can’t play tennis anymore and you wouldn’t stand a chance against me in the final?"

"Kurt– Kurt, no. You’ve got it all wrong."

"Well you know what, Blaine Anderson? You can give yourself a pat on the back because you did it. I am out of the tournament. You’ll probably win, I just hope it’s been worth it."

"Kurt. Please, I am _so_ sorry about your match. _Fuck,_ I really am... I just, _please,_ let’s just talk."

"Why? What the hell is there left to say? You wanted it to be over? It’s over. It’s all fucking _over."_ ’

"There is a _lot_ to say. Please, Kurt." Blaine sounds a little hurt, a lot dejected, and it kind of tugs on Kurt’s heartstrings a little bit but he doesn’t back down, can’t now.

"What?" Kurt yells, hands curling into fists and back straightening. "What can you possibly have to say to me right now that I could want to hear?"  

Blaine doesn’t answer and Kurt snorts out a derisive laugh. "Of course there’s nothing to say. God, it’s so fucking obvious, isn’t it? I should have known when I stupidly _stupidly_ told you I loved you and you didn’t say it back. You might have fallen in love with something this week, Blaine, but it wasn’t me, it was the fact that maybe you weren’t as doneas you thought you were. You were high on success and I was the biggest threat to your winning streak."

"Kurt. That’s... Kurt, you have no idea how wrong you are. Please, will you just let me talk?"

"–Well you know what, _Blaine_? I’m in love with winning too. Nothing, _nobody_ matters to me more than that, nobody. Do you hear me? Not one single person matters to me more than winning that fucking trophy. And I just had to kiss it goodbye."

"Kurt."

" _Blaine_ _."_ He says it mockingly, stomach twisting with anger and pain and regret, too stubborn to calm down and think rationally. Kurt knows his own faults but he’s also pretty good at being blind to them when other emotions are high. "You know what _love_ means in tennis, Blaine? It means that you _fucking_ _lose."_

Kurt grabs his bag from where it rests on the bench and without giving Blaine so much as a second glance he pushes past him, letting the door slam heavily behind him. His breath is coming hard and fast, his heart is racing, he feels sick, and his eyes are stinging with tears that he absolutely cannot shed, not here, not now. He needs to go home, he needs to find Rachel and he needs to eat a full fucking cheesecake.

 


	8. Chapter 8

"What do you think you’re doing?"

Rachel barges through the door to Kurt’s bedroom without even knocking. She’s like a whirlwind, crossing the room in four strides and folding her arms across her chest to glare at him. Kurt sighs inwardly – he does not need this right now, wonders why she’s in his bedroom when she could be anyplace else, soaking up the publicity.

"I’m packing," Kurt says dryly, not skipping a beat.

"Yes. I can see that. What I want to know is why."

"Because I’m going home."

He doesn’t meet her eye, just keeps folding and packing, folding and packing. He feels a little guilty if he’s honest, he _should_ be hanging around. Rachel won her final yesterday, got to lift her first Wimbledon trophy, and of course Kurt had been right there on his feet to applaud her, laughing as she danced around the court in elation (while completely forgetting to shake her opponent's hand). Or maybe she hadn’t forgotten at all. One can never really tell with Rachel.

He’d been so proud of her it hurt, he still is, and they’d celebrated until late last night with champagne and expensive food and so much laughter, so many _tears_ – God, even Finn had cried – and there’s more to come, there’ll be celebrations for days to come. Rachel is his best and oldest friend and he owes it to her to be there, but he can’t, he just _can’t._

Being here, in this house, this city, this Goddamn country, it just feels like a constant reminder of everything that he’s lost: the semifinal, _Blaine._ It hurts like a deep ache right in his bones and while Blaine’s here it’s so hard to stay away. At least if he’s at home then the temptation to walk on over to the grounds, grab Blaine, and never let him go will be gone.

Out of sight, out of mind – or so he hopes.

Blaine’s final is about to start. Kurt knows exactly what time it’s at, can’t stop looking at his watch and feels sick with nerves that make no sense because he shouldn’t care. There’s a part of him that’s still hurting, still angry and yet he wants this for Blaine so badly but he can’t watch it. Needs instead to get on a plane, get back to the familiarity of his own apartment and lick his wounds, probably ‘til he’s 80.

"Is this because of Blaine?" Rachel narrows her eyes.

"No." Rachel isn’t his best friend for nothing. She sees right through him, always has.

"Do you love him?"

Kurt’s stomach twists because it’s irrelevant now; whatever he felt, whatever he feels, he has no choice but to push it down and move on with his life.

"It’s over. God, it barely even began."

"Do you love him?"

"It doesn’t matter."

"Do you _love_ him, Kurt."

"Rachel, please." He’s pleading but she doesn’t care, carries right on talking as though he hasn’t said a word.

"– because if you are prepared to leave before the celebrations of my victory have even begun, if you are not going to be at my Champion’s Dinner, then it had _better_ be because you love him."

Kurt had forgotten about the Champion’s Dinner entirely; about the invitation issued not just to winners but to all players who reached the final stages; about how he owed it to Rachel to be there to share in her glory; about how, regardless of the outcome of his final, Blaine would be there too.

"Yes I love him,” he says dully, because there’s no use denying it, she won’t stop ‘til she gets the answer she needs. "And I love you, Rach, so much, but I _can’t_ go tonight."

Rachel looks victorious. "If you love him,” she says, "then you can’t let him go."

" _He_ let _me_ go.” Kurt’s frustrated, Rachel is insufferable. and this whole sorry situation is killing him. He doesn’t want to do this with her now or ever. He just wants to go home.

"I didn’t win this trophy by giving up, Kurt."

 _Here we go_ , Kurt thinks, not even twenty-four hours have passed and already she thinks winning the title qualifies her to advise everyone on everything ever. He doesn’t even try to refrain from rolling his eyes.

"Finn and I didn’t get to where we are by giving up. The things that matter to you take so much work. I know you. If you don’t at least watch his match, ifyou do not come to _my dinner_ , you will regret it forever. And _forever_ is a very long time to live in regret. _"_

Rachel and Finn’s relationship scares the living hell out of Kurt, truth be told, and if she’s to be judged by that like she clearly wants to be, then she is absolutely not qualified to offer any kind of relationship advice: it’s been a trainwreck since high school and he has no idea how they’re even still together. She does know _him_ , though, and she’s looking at him now like she already knows exactly what he’s about to say, like she knew all along that Kurt would be there tonight to sing her praises even though all it will do is rub salt in his wounds. He lost his chance at the Championship and he lost Blaine – it’s enough to tempt him to dig in his heels just to wipe that smug smile off her face but he can’t because she’s right, he would regret it.

He sighs heavily and drops the shirt he’d been folding back onto the bed, running a hand across his face. He knows Rachel just punched the air even without looking.

"If we go now," she says, tugging him towards the door, "then we might only miss the first few games."

"I said I’d stay for the dinner, not go and watch him _play."_

Rachel just raises her eyebrows expectantly. "Kurt. People make mistakes. You make mistakes, Blaine makes mistakes, but if you really really _love_ him, if even a teeny part of you believes that this _means_ something, then you owe it to yourself to talk to him. Properly. You owe it to yourself to at least be on court today. Stop being so _stubborn."_

And he is being stubborn, of course he is. Kurt’s MO is to batten down the hatches when things get emotionally difficult, he pulls up the drawbridge and refuses to let anybody past. But whether he thinks it’s sensible or not, whether it will do him more harm than good, he _wants_ to be on Centre Court right now.

"Fine. I’ll go."

"Of course you will. Come on, come on – we have to be quick."

 _Hell no_. It’s bad enough he’s even putting himself through this, he does not need her commentary on top of that. "Don’t you have a dinner to get ready for?"

"Oh! You’re right. You should probably go alone. I should call my stylist and pull forward my appointment... The media will be all over me this evening, you know."

She might know him better than he knows himself, but it’s absolutely a two-way street.

 

**: :**

 

The Wimbledon Final.

 

It feels like Blaine has waited his whole life for this and now that it’s here it feels oddly anti-climactic. Wes is practically having kittens; Blaine has barely been able to stand being around him for the last day or so, he’s so proud and so nervous and can barely stand still for more than two seconds, it’s making Blaine want to throw up. Wes is up in the box now with Cooper, with Blaine’s fucking _parents_ – Blaine can’t remember the last time _they_ came to see him play – and what is reputedly the most important title in the tennis world is right there at his fingertips.

Blaine? Absolutely does not care.

It’s gray and cold, the weather echoing Blaine’s mood again, the bright sun of yesterday having vanished overnight and taken with it the last vestiges of enthusiasm that Blaine held for the game.

Sebastian had grinned before they walked onto the court and made some comment about how there was a prize in this for both of them, if Blaine was game enough. He hadn’t even been able to come up with a suitably snarky retort and that in itself is unlike him. His relationship with Sebastian has been built around his hitting on Blaine and Blaine knocking him right back for a while now – it usually comes as naturally to him as breathing – but today didn’t have anything. Sebastian had looked at him searchingly, head cocked to one side, then he’d reached out and squeezed Blaine’s hand gently, said "Good luck out there." It had brought a lump to Blaine’s throat.

Sebastian plays dirty tennis. He plays well, Blaine’s got to give him that, but he’s all fast serves and sneaky aces. With Blaine barely trying it’s taken no time at all for him to end up two sets and three games down; the lead is well and truly Sebastian’s.

Then it begins to rain.

Blaine wants to _laugh_ – ain’t this just his luck.

They call a stop to play pretty quickly, of course, herding him and Sebastian back inside while they pull over the covers and close the roof. Wes is waiting in the locker room, and Blaine briefly wonders if he has thus-far-unnoticed superpowers because there is no way he could have gotten back here this fast otherwise. He doesn’t have time to think on it before Wes pulls him to one side, face tight with worry that Blaine immediately feels guilty for causing.

"I can’t do this." Blaine surprises himself when he says the words, but he means them. He can’t, he really, really _cannot_ do this.

Wes’s mouth falls open in shock. "I’m sorry?"

"No," Blaine says, " _I’m_ sorry. I’m really fucking sorry, Wes, but I can’t."

"Can’t do what?"

 _Jesus,_ Blaine thinks, _is he going to make me spell it out?_

"I’m losing out there. I am moments away from being a total laughingstock; he’s wiping the floor with me and I can’t do it, I’d rather fold than stand out there and let the world watch it all fall apart."

"Blaine. Listen, take a breath."

"I don’t need to _take a breath_." Blaine is pulling at his hair, pacing back and forth. Something akin to panic bubbles deep in his stomach. "Don’t you get it? I’m beaten enough already. It doesn’t matter anymore, I’ve already lost the only thing I really wanted, I’ve already lost _Kurt_ and I’m just _done."_

"You absolutely are _not_ done, Blaine Anderson."

Blaine startles, spins quickly to face the door. He can’t believe it but it is, it’s him, walking briskly across the changing room, head held high. And he looks so perfect, so so perfect.

"Kurt." Blaine says, like a whisper, voice cracking just slightly.

"Listen to me," Kurt says, coming to a stop before them and flashing Wes a quick and grateful smile as he steps away, busying himself with his cell several feet away. "God, Blaine, you ought to be grateful for that rain – it gives you time to turn this around."

Blaine snorts. "I’m two sets down, Kurt.” He wants to ask Kurt why he’s here after everything, but he doesn’t dare say the wrong thing in case it makes him turn and walk right back out the door.

"So? So was I and I did it. You’re better than this, Blaine, you’re better than you give yourself credit for. You’re better than him. Listen to me, he’s a pusher: he plays fast and he plays hard, and you’re incredible but it won’t be enough against his speed. I lost my focus and I let him beat me – don’t make the same mistake. You need to demoralize him. He’s good, but he likes to stay in his comfort zone. He thinks he has the upper hand right now so it’s the perfect opportunity, really: get him moving ‘round the court, bring him to the net then pass him, hit out to the corners and come back in for the volley, hit crosscourt to his forehand. Use your drop shot, and remember he wants you to play hard shots all the time but you’ll do better against him if you keep calm... For God’s sake, stop letting him see you’re stressed because he draws on your weakness, he plays a mental game as much as a physical one and the more frustrated you are, the stronger he’ll be. And stay consistent; that was my problem, I think. You can do this, I know you can. He can’t take this from both of us. We can’t let him.”

"Why?" Blaine asks, baffled. "Why are you doing this? Why are you _here?"_

"Because it’s the fucking final and I want my boyfriend to be the guy who wins it.

 

**: :**

 

"Kurt." Blaine’s voice breaks over his name and Kurt’s heart is thundering ten to the dozen against the confines of his rib cage. Blaine is in the middle of playing the Wimbledon _final,_ fuck’s sake, and maybe that means Kurt has the worst timing in the world (God, he doesn’t even know what he’s _doing_ right now; this isn’t something he planned.) Then they’re in each other’s arms, Blaine’s arms are around his waist and his own are around Blaine’s shoulders. Blaine’s face is pressed right into the side of Kurt’s neck, he’s taking these big gulping breaths as though he’s breathing Kurt in, and nothing has ever felt so perfect.

Blaine and Sebastian were already into the second set when Kurt had finally taken his seat in the stands on Centre Court, still not entirely sure that this wasn’t a terrible idea. It had taken him approximately 32 seconds to realize that Blaine did not have his head in the game; he was possibly playing the worst tennis of his career and Kurt should know, he’s followed it for long enough. He’d leant forward, hands gripping his knees so hard his knuckles went white, and watched as Sebastian had gloated his way around the court while Blaine looked like it was taking all of his energy just to raise his racket.

Kurt had felt sick to his stomach; Blaine looked broken, so defeated, and it left him _hurting_ , not just in a not wanting Sebastian to win way or in a not wanting to see Blaine lose way, but deeper than that. Seeing Blaine broken made _Kurt_ broken and it had hit him suddenly, three games into the second set when it had begun to rain (heavy droplets of water that bounced off the grass) as the Umpire called a pause in the proceedings: Blaine, that gorgeous man down there half-heartedly swinging his bag over his shoulder and walking towards the changing rooms with his head down, was _it_ for him. He was it and maybe Kurt had been a little – okay, a _lot_ – too hasty in the wake of his own defeat, maybe he should have heard him out earlier because in that moment it had been as clear as day: Blaine was his forever. And he was Kurt Hummel, he didn’t give up without a fight ever, he sure as hell wasn’t going to start now. He loved Blaine, and Blaine had just better stop being such a _dick_ about it and love Kurt back because theirs would be a bleak happily ever after otherwise.

"I made a mistake," Blaine mumbles into his skin now, "I made a terrible mistake."

Kurt pulls away then, takes a deep calming breath and forces himself to meet Blaine’s eyes. Blaine looks a mess, skin flushed and eyes red and shining with tears – he looks like he’s on the edge of just falling apart and it takes everything Kurt has not to reach for him again, just make the past go away, but _Blaine_ pushed _Kurt_ away. No matter how much Kurt wants this, he can’t just let everything go  They can be together but they have to _talk,_ and that’s presumptuous of Kurt anyway; what if together’s not what Blaine even _wants?_

"Your boyfriend? Do you mean it?” Blaine asks brokenly, eyes roaming greedily over him as he speaks. Kurt really wants to grab him by the shirt and pull him back in, whisper “ _Yes, of course, a thousand times yes,”_ even though he hadn’t meant to say it, not right then,but Blaine’s still talking.

"I need you to know I made a mistake," he says softly, "and I really, really want to make it right."

"We don’t need to talk about that now," Kurt says, biting down on his bottom lip, hoping against hope that Blaine is saying what he thinks he’s saying.

" _Kurt._ God, _Kurt_. Those things I said– I got caught up in my own stupid hero complex. I thought... I thought if I ended it I’d be saving you somehow, that being with me was keeping you from your dreams, that by being with you I was doing more damage than good and I was so worried about your career – you should have been working but you were with me all the time and I was stopping you from doing the things that mattered, but _Kurt_ , what about my dreams? Because they’re… they’re you, and as soon as I walked away from you – God, I was sick in your bushes and you don’t need to know that – but I knew right away that I would regret that decision ‘til the end of my life. I tried to stick with it because I thought it was right but I can’t anymore. I can’t care about right, not if _right_ doesn’t mean _you._ Kurt, I want – I need – I want you and, well, you just said boyfriend so–!"

Kurt kisses him, can’t not kiss him, because Christ, it’s Blaine and Kurt has been in love with him for _ever_. Blaine’s so stupidly earnest with his face all crumpled up, and there’s a freaking tear creeping down his cheek – how can Kurt focus on how much it hurt when Blaine is right here and it doesn’t hurt anymore? When he _loves_ Kurt like this, wholly and completely. It’s not a fix-it, because what if Blaine keeps trying to make Kurt’s decisions for him? What if Blaine rushes off everytime it gets a little tough or every time his dad sticks his interfering old man nose into Kurt’s business - Kurt knows as surely as he knows his own name that this is where this came from. But then, Blaine is sorry and he made a mistake and he _needs Kurt_ which is the best thing because Kurt needs Blaine too. Things might not be perfect, but in the circle of his arms, lips parted and teeth nibbling, tasting, wanting it’s easy to see a way forward.

"This doesn’t make it fine," he says breathlessly when he finally pulls away, laughing a little as Blaine tries to chase his mouth.

Blaine shakes his head soberly. "No. Kurt, I know. I just, I’m an idiot and I’m sorry."

"You _are_ an idiot, but you’re mine through good and bad, right?"

"Totally."

Kurt grins, kisses him again, grins a bit more. "I swear, Anderson, if you ever pull a stunt like that again, well, hell hath no fury like Kurt Hummel scorned."

"I can imagine." Blaine shudders, crosses his heart, grabs Kurt’s pinkie in a promise.

"When we get home, after all of this, we’ll talk. Properly. Alright? Because we can’t just...I said some shitty thing too, I know this isn’t all on you. We need to talk, but not now because right now you need to go out there and you need to give it your all, Blaine."

"I’m not going to win," Blaine says softly, but his eyes are shining, crinkling up at the corners, like losing this match doesn’t even matter. "Like I said, I’m two sets down."

"And like _I_ said" – Kurt grabs his hands and squeezes them – "you _can_. You can do anything you want. Just remember what I said, learn from my mistakes, and if you lose, well."

"We got each other out of all of this," Blaine interrupts with a smile, "and that beats a lousy trophy. Right?"

"Right."

All of a sudden, Blaine really _wants_ that lousy trophy, wants it so badly that it makes his heart race. The knowledge that Kurt will be out there, looking perfectly edible with his coiffed hair and his perfect, belovedfacebelieving in Blaine, _loving_ Blaine, it just makes him want it all the more somehow. He swallows hard as they step back onto the court, makes eye contact with Sebastian for the first time since the match started and tries valiantly to swallow down a smile as his opponent raises an eyebrow in surprise. _Keep your cool_ , Kurt had said, _Don’t let him see your emotions,_ and so Blaine doesn’t.

He takes a deep breath, bounces the ball and serves.

If this were a movie then Blaine would probably come back out and storm the match; he’d wipe the floor with Sebastian Smythe, scoring point after point after point ‘til there was little sense in Sebastian even trying, so obviously would the victory be Blaine’s. The crowd would be on their feet and the umpire would be hollering for quiet, the game would be over in under an hour and the trophy would be Blaine’s.

It’s not a movie, though, it’s life and it’s professional tennis, and Sebastian Smythe is a talented player who already has the upper hand. He makes Blaine work. The difference is that now Blaine _wants_ to work – he feels a rush of determination at each lost point and barely resists punching the air at each one earned.

He wins the third set 6 games to 4.

Set 4 matters.

Blaine might have won the third but Sebastian is still a set up and he knows it. Blaine ups his game and he can practically see the tension around Centre Court, hovering in a muggy haze around him. He tries to play through it and doesn’t look at Wes, his family, or Kurt. It’s exhausting, the court feels hotter somehow with the roof on, like there’s less air, and Sebastian is on fire. Blaine is determined to match him stroke for stroke; for each point he loses he makes sure to score another, drawing strength from the chants of his name between points, the hisses of "yes” each time things go in his favor. Sebastian might be seeded higher than Blaine but Blaine still holds the hearts of the crowd. He just hopes he doesn’t let them down.

 

7-6.

 

Blaine is ahead, just. Sebastian is sweating. This is it, this is make or break. Blaine takes a centering breath and allows himself a look over in Kurt’s direction. Kurt is leaning forward and he looks tense, like he’s barely breathing, but he catches Blaine’s eye, holds it for a second and grins. Blaine grins back. He can do this.

There’s a challenge. A slow clap. The umpire calls, " _Mr. Smythe has 2 challenges remaining_ ,” and Blaine knows he all but has him: Sebastian rarely feels the need to challenge a call. Blaine serves hard and fast and set point is _his_ – he’s still not sure how he managed to turn it around and go from two sets down to this, but here they are with new balls for the fifth set.

It’s been a long long day and it’s not over yet.  Sebastian’s tiring, though, making more mistakes, not fighting as hard. He keeps stretching his leg, and Blaine knows he has an old injury but isn’t sure whether it’s bothering him or whether Sebastian’s just looking for an excuse – he doesn’t care, not really, just keeps playing. It’s a game apiece for a while, every time Blaine thinks he’s ahead Sebastian snatches it back. It feels like it’s one of those matches that’s going to last into the small hours of the morning but then it’s 5-4, and Blaine just needs to win _one more game_.

One more game and it’s his. For the first time in his career he could be just four points away from lifting the Wimbledon trophy. He feels sick.

It goes like this:

 

Love-15 to Sebastian.

 

15-15.

 

30-15 and Blaine is ahead. Maybe he can do it, he just needs two points in a row.

 

Sebastian is sweating, he’s looking at Blaine like he wants to kill him and Blaine’s heart is thundering against his ribcage so hard it almost hurts. He can barely breathe and wonders briefly if this is what a heart attack feels like.

 

30-30. Sebastian is not going to give up without a fight.

 

40-30. Blaine can practically feel the trophy in his hands and

 

40-40. Deuce. Blaine could just _laugh_ , feels more than slightly manic. Fucking _deuce_.

 

There’s a serve – a fast one, a return shot, a lineman’s call of "OUT."

 

The umpire’s voice is practically a monotone as he looks down on them, leaning a little towards the microphone. His " _Advantage Anderson_ ” can barely be heard above the cheers of the crowd.

Blaine can’t look at Kurt. He looks towards Wes instead.

Wes, sitting ramrod straight; Cooper, forgetting to play it cool completely with his hand over his mouth; Blaine’s parents, leaning forward in their seats, his mom’s hand gripping his father’s arm and his dad looking right at him, small smile playing at the corner of his mouth.

Advantage Anderson. One more point, that’s all there is to it. Blaine just needs to score _one more point._

_“Blaine Anderson is serving for the Wimbledon title.”_

Sebastian returns serve, and Blaine doesn’t have time to think about it, really, which is a good thing: if he had time to think about it then he’d just let the shot go because diving volleys hurt and Blaine is not so big on pain. He just goes, though, doesn’t think about how hard the landing might be or the fact that if he doesn’t play it just right then they’re back to deuce (there’s no chance he’ll make it back for the next shot). He just focuses on the fact that the ball is too far away to _not_ dive for it – this is his only option.

Go big, Blaine Anderson, or go home.

Blaine is so not going home.

His feet are off the ground, his racket arm outstretched, and the thud as the ball bounces off the strings is nothing next to the thud of Blaine’s pulse in his ears. He remembers just in time to put out a hand to save himself, feels his t-shirt ruck up beneath him as he lands, sliding across the grass. Then the crowd is on its feet, the chant they’re screaming almost deafening – "AN-DER-SON, AN-DER-SON” – and as Blaine pulls himself back to a stand he hears the umpire say his name.

He looks at the scoreboard: 3-6, 2-6, 6-4, 7-6 {8-6}, 6-4.

He’s won.

 

**: :**

 

Kurt actually cannot breathe. He doesn’t think he’s taken a full breath since the start of the last game – the last _set,_ even – and now as Blaine dives across the court and executes a diving volley to win the whole Goddamn tournament, Kurt forgets to exhale.

Blaine has just won Wimbledon.  

Everyone is on their feet, the man beside him grabbing Kurt by the arm and tugging him up to stand. The umpire says Blaine’s name and Sebastian passes a hand over his face in a mixture of exhaustion and disappointment. Kurt can hardly move, just stands and stares right at Blaine, who pulls himself to his feet to chants of his own name and glances toward the scoreboard as though he can’t believe it unless he’s seen it with his own eyes. Finally his face breaks into that beautiful face-splitting smile that makes Kurt’s stomach flip.

Kurt doesn’t take his eyes off Blaine as he curls his left hand into a fist in a small understated air punch of victory or as he crosses to the net, shirt still a little rucked up from his fall and hair starting to escape from his match day gel. He holds out a hand for Sebastian to shake and leaning in, mutters a few words – Sebastian shrugs in response. Then finally, _finally_ he looks over, finding Kurt easily through the crowd, of which some are still standing but others have started to sit back down. The whole process has probably taken about a minute but it feels like the longest minute of Kurt’s life. Blaine’s eyes meet his and Kurt smiles. Blaine grins in return then he’s moving, racket clattering to the ground as he runs across the court and vaults over the barrier, not seeming to notice the people who are reaching to touch him, congratulate him as he bounces up the stairs. He pushes his way politely, always so politely – " _Excuse me, sorry, can I just– excuse me, thank you” –_ along the row in front of Kurt’s, clambering onto the seat right in front of his. Kurt hopes inanely that Blaine’s shoes are clean because the lady whose seat he’s standing on is wearing white... But would you really care if your dress was ruined by Blaine Anderson’s grubby footprints moments after he won the Wimbledon Championship?

Blaine says his name, a little breathlessly, just once: "Kurt.” And Kurt laughs, pure and joyful.

"I knew you could do it," he says.

Blaine climbs over the back of the seat and kisses him, hands cupping Kurt’s face and eyes closed, in what’s a gentle brush of lips on lips at first. _Holy hell,_ television cameras the world over are going to be capturing this moment. Kurt laughs into the kiss; he can’t help it, doesn’t think he’s ever felt quite like this before. Blaine takes advantage of the chance to lick into his mouth and deepen the kiss, his hands still cradling Kurt’s face.

"That," Kurt says when they finally pull apart and his forehead is resting against Blaine’s, "is a victory celebration that’s going to go down in history. Now, go lift that trophy."

 

 


End file.
